NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 


N ATU  RE 
NEAR    LONDON 

BY 

RICHARD  JJ:FFERIES 

AUTHOR* OF 

"THE  LIFE  OF  THE  FIELDS,"  "THE  OPBN  AIR,"  ETC. 

WITH    INTRODUCTION    BY 
THOMAS    COKE    WATKINS 


NEW     YORK 
THOMAS    Y.   CROWELL   &    CO. 

PUBLISHERS 


SI 

JV5" 


COPYRIGHT,  1907, 
BY  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  Co. 


THE   UNIVERSITY   PRESS,   CAMBRIDGE,   U.  S. 


PREFACE 


'T  is  usually  supposed  to  be  necessary  to  go 
far  into  the  country  to  find  wild  birds  and 
animals  in  sufficient  numbers  to  be  pleasantly 
studied.  Such  was  certainly  my  own  impres- 
sion till  circumstances  led  me,  for  the  convenience 
of  access  to  London,  to  reside  for  awhile  about 
twelve  miles  from  town.  There  my  preconceived 
views  on  the  subject  were  quite  overthrown  by  the 
presence  of  as  much  bird-life  as  I  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  in  distant  fields  and  woods. 

First,  as  the  spring  began,  came  crowds  of  chiff- 
chaffs  and  willow  wrens  filling  the  furze  with 
ceaseless  flutterings.  Presently  a  nightingale  sang 
in  a  hawthorn  bush  only  just  on  the  other  side  of 
the  road.  One  morning,  on  looking  out  of  window, 
there  was  a  hen  pheasant  in  the  furze  almost  under- 
neath. Rabbits  often  came  out  into  the  spaces  of 
sward  between  the  bushes. 

The  furze  itself  became  a  broad  surface  of  gold, 
beautiful  to  look  down  upon,  with  islands  of  ten- 
derest  birch  green  interspersed,  and  willows  in  which 
the  sedge-reedling  chattered.  They  used  to  say  in 
the  country  that  cuckoos  were  getting  scarce,  but 


PREFACE 

here  the  notes  of  the  cuckoo  echoed  all  day  long, 
and  the  birds  often  flew  over  the  house.  Doves 
cooed,  blackbirds  whistled,  thrushes  sang,  jays  called, 
wood-pigeons  uttered  the  old  familiar  notes  in  the 
little  copse  hard  by.  Even  a  heron  went  over  now 
and  then,  and  in  the  evening  from  the  window  I 
could  hear  partridges  calling  each  other  to  roost. 

Along  the  roads  and  lanes  the  quantity  and 
variety  of  life  in  the  hedges  was  really  astonishing. 
Magpies,  jays,  woodpeckers  —  both  green  and  pied 
—  kestrels  hovering  overhead,  sparrow-hawks  dart- 
ing over  gateways,  hares  by  the  clover,  weasels  on 
the  mounds,  stoats  at  the  edge  of  the  corn.  I 
missed  but  two  birds,  the  corncrake  and  the  grass- 
hopper lark,  and  found  these  another  season.  Two 
squirrels  one  day  ran  along  the  palings  and  up  into 
a  guelder-rose  tree  in  the  garden.  As  for  the  finches 
and  sparrows,  their  number  was  past  calculation. 
There  was  material  for  many  years'  observation, 
and  finding  myself  so  unexpectedly  in  the  midst 
of  these  things,  I  was  led  to  make  the  following 
sketches,  which  were  published  in  The  Standard, 
and  are  now  reprinted  by  permission. 

The  question  may  be  asked  :  Why  have  you  not 
indicated  in  every  case  the  precise  locality  where 
you  were  so  pleased  ?  Why  not  mention  the  exact 
hedge,  the  particular  meadow  ?  Because  no  two 
persons  look  at  the  same  thing  with  the  same  eyes. 


E.T3K    PREFACE 


To  me  this  spot  may  be  attractive,  to  you  another; 
a  third  thinks  yonder  gnarled  oak  the  most  artistic. 
Nor  could  I  guarantee  that  every  one  should  see 
the  same  things  under  the  same  conditions  of 
season,  time  or  weather.  How  could  I  arrange 
for  you  next  autumn  to  see  the  sprays  of  the  horse- 
chestnut,  scarlet  from  frost,  reflected  in  the  dark 
water  of  the  brook  ?  There  might  not  be  any  frost 
till  all  the  leaves  had  dropped.  How  could  I 
contrive  that  the  cuckoos  should  circle  round  the 
copse,  the  sunlight  glint  upon  the  stream,  the  warm 
sweet  wind  come  breathing  over  the  young  corn 
just  when  I  should  wish  you  to  feel  it  ?  Every  one 
must  find  their  own  locality.  I  find  a  favourite 
wild-flower  here,  and  the  spot  is  dear  to  me ;  you 
find  yours  yonder.  Neither  painter  nor  writer  can 
show  the  spectator  their  originals.  It  would  be 
very  easy,  too,  to  pass  any  of  these  places  and  see 
nothing,  or  but  little.  Birds  are  wayward,  wild 
creatures  uncertain.  The  tree  crowded  with  wood- 
pigeons  one  minute  is  empty  the  next.  To  traverse 
the  paths  day  by  day,  and  week  by  week;  to  keep 
an  eye  ever  on  the  fields  from  year's  end  to  year's 
end,  is  the  one  only  method  of  knowing  what  really 
is  in,  or  comes  to  them.  That  the  sitting  gambler 
sweeps  the  board  is  true  of  these  matters.  The 
richest  locality  may  be  apparently  devoid  of  interest 
just  at  the  juncture  of  a  chance  visit. 


Though  my  preconceived  ideas  were  overthrown 
by  the  presenre  of  so  much  that  was  beautiful  and 
interesting  close  to  London,  yet  in  course  of  time 
I  came  to  understand  what  was  at  first  a  dim  sense 
of  something  wanting.  In  the  shadiest  lane,  in  the 
still  pinewoods,  on  the  hills  of  purple  heath,  after 
brief  contemplation  there  arose  a  restlessness,  a 
feeling  that  it  was  essential  to  be  moving.  In  no 
grassy  mead  was  there  a  nook  where  I  could  stretch 
myself  in  slumberous  ease  and  watch  the  swallows 
ever  wheeling,  wheeling  in  the  sky.  This  was  the 
unseen  influence  of  mighty  London.  The  strong 
life  of  the  vast  city  magnetized  me,  and  I  felt  it 
under  the  calm  oaks.  The  something  wanting  in 
the  fields  was  the  absolute  quiet,  peace,  and  rest 
which  dwells  in  the  meadows  and  under  the  trees 
and  on  the  hilltops  in  the  country.  Under  its 
power  the  mind  gradually  yields  itself  to  the  green 
earth,  the  wind  among  the  trees,  the  song  of  birds, 
and  comes  to  have  an  understanding  with  them  all. 
For  this  it  is  still  necessary  to  seek  the  far-away 
glades  and  hollow  coombes,  or  to  sit  alone  beside 
the  sea.  That  such  a  sense  of  quiet  might  not  be 
lacking  I  have  added  a  chapter  or  so  on  those 
lovely  downs  that  overlook  the  south  coast. 

R.J. 


—  viii  — 


CONTENTS 


WOODLANDS i 

FOOTPATHS 16 

FLOCKS  OF  BIRDS 32 

NIGHTINGALE  ROAD 46 

A  BROOK 63 

A  LONDON  TROUT 78 

A  BARN        93 

WHEATFIELDS 106 

THE  CROWS 120 

HEATHLANDS 134 

THE  RIVER 147 

NUTTY  AUTUMN 165 

ROUND  A  LONDON  COPSE 177 

MAGPIE  FIELDS 196 

HERBS 217 

TREES  ABOUT  TOWN 231 

To  BRIGHTON 243 

THE  SOUTHDOWN  SHEPHERD 259 

THE  BREEZE  ON  BEACHY  HEAD 274 


INTRODUCTION 


JCHARD  JEFFERIES  lived  closer  to 
Nature  than  any  other  man  of  his 
day.  In  beautiful  language  he  has  ex- 
pressed the  impressions  and  thoughts 
inspired  by  all  he  beheld,  —  the  landscape,  the 
glory  of  the  day  and  night,  the  sweep  of  the 
horizon,  the  mood  of  the  sea,  the  sky,  the  valleys 
and  hills,  the  spirit  of  the  outer  world  that  lay 
about  him.  He  not  only  saw,  he  felt  Nature. 
The  wind  that  whistled  through  the  grass,  or 
sighed  in  the  tops  of  the  dark  fir  trees,  spoke 
to  him  a  mystic  language.  The  great  sun  in 
unclouded  splendour,  slowly  passing  over  the  up- 
lifted hills,  told  him  a  part  of  their  secret.  He 
was,  in  a  word,  the  scribe  of  all  Nature,  and  so 
much  a  part  of  all  he  saw  that  he  seems  himself 
to  be  the  sunlight,  the  grass,  and  the  air. 

His  life  was  one  largely  of  the  spirit  —  longing 
passionately  for  the  fullest  soul  expression  —  the 
life  more  abundant.  That  remarkable  masterpiece, 


INTRODUCTION 

The  Story  of  my  Heart^  my  Autobiography,  gives  us 
much  he  would  have  us  know ;  not  the  events  of 
his  life,  his  actions,  nor  his  fortunes,  but  the  out- 
pouring of  his  innermost  being ;  craving  through 
the  years  more  beauty,  a  keener  perception,  a 
deeper  interest.  This  longing  seems  to  have  com- 
pletely mastered  him,  and  in  his  strange  autobiog- 
raphy he  poured  out  with  what  strength  and  skill 
he  possessed  the  intensity  of  his  feelings. 

"  I  was  not  more  than  eighteen,"  he  says,  "  when 
an  inner  and  esoteric  meaning  began  to  come  to  me 
from  all  the  visible  universe,  and  indefinable  aspira- 
tions filled  me.  I  found  them  in  the  grass  fields, 
under  the  trees,  on  the  hill-tops,  at  sunrise,  and  in  the 
night.  There  was  a  deeper  meaning  everywhere. 
The  sun  burned  with  it ;  the  broad  front  of  the 
morning  beamed  with  it;  a  deep  feeling  entered 
me  while  gazing  at  the  sky  in  the  azure  noon, 
and  in  the  starlit  evening. 

"  I  thought  of  the  earth's  firmness ;  I  felt  it  bear 
me  up;  through  the  grassy  couch  there  came  an 
influence  as  if  I  could  feel  the  great  earth  speaking 
to  me.  I  thought  of  the  wandering  air;  its  pureness, 
which  is  its  beauty ;  the  air  touched  me  and  gave 
me  something  of  itself.  I  spoke  to  the  sea,  though 
so  far,  in  my  mind  I  saw  it,  green  at  the  rim  of  the 
earth  and  blue  in  deeper  ocean ;  I  desired  to  have 
its  strength,  its  mystery  and  glory." 


INTRODUCTION 


But  while  we  gather  from  this  strangely  beautiful 
heart  story  the  promptings  of  his  real  self,  the  mere 
happenings  of  his  uneventful  life  were  so  vitally  for- 
mative that  it  is  important  to  be  familiar  with  them. 

Jefferies  was  born  at  the  ancestral  home,  Coate 
Farm,  Wiltshire,  England,  November  6,  184.8,  and 
was  a  veritable  son  of  the  soil,  being  a  descendant  of 
an  old  stock  of  yeomen.  Mr.  Salt,  in  his  sympathetic 
and  intimate  Study  of  Jefferies,describes  the  landscape 
around  Coate  as  "a  country  of  rich  grassy  lowlands 
dominated  by  high,  bare  downs ;  one  which  is  full 
of  treasure  for  naturalist  and  archaeologist  alike; 
in  no  other  district,  perhaps,  could  the  future  writer 
of  Wild  Life  in  a  Southern  County  have  found  choicer 
material  for  his  work.  All  the  best  characteristics 
of  typical  English  scenery  were  grouped  within  easy 
distance  of  Richard  Jefferies'  birthplace.  About  a 
hundred  yards  from  the  house  is  Coate  lake,  or 
reservoir,  a  large  sheet  of  water  which  played  an 
important  part  in  the  canoe  voyages  and  other 
adventures  of  his  childhood,  and  is  frequently  re- 
ferred to  in  his  writings.  But  it  was  the  Downs 
in  particular  that  influenced  his  youthful  imagina- 
tion ;  and  we  are  informed,  on  the  authority  of  one 
who  learned  it  from  Jefferies  himself,  that  "  it  was 
when  he  roamed  about  the  long,  rolling  Downs  that 
he  felt  his  life  most  full,  his  thoughts  most  clear, 
his  spirit  most  exalted  and  yet  most  at  rest." 


INTRODUCTION 

These  early  years,  of  lonely  roaming  over  hill  and 
country  with  his  gift  of  insight,  were  the  most 
important  in  Jefferies'  life,  and  the  unconscious 
impressions  gained  were  to  ripen  later  into  the  full- 
est expression  of  his  genius.  Truly  "  the  child  was 
father  to  the  man,"  but  it  was  years  before  he  came 
to  self-realisation  with  a  full  consciousness  of  the 
truth  and  power  within. 

In  early  life  he  imagined  himself  a  journalist, 
and  his  first  book,  published  in  1873,  was  a  crude 
discourse  on  Reporting,  Editing,  and  Authorship. 
He  was,  we  are  told  by  his  biographer,  a  youth  of 
a  thousand  foolish  fancies,  enthusiastic  over  little 
things  and  not  to  be  dismayed  by  constant  dis- 
appointment and  failure.  He  wrote  news  items 
for  the  provincial  papers,  and  on  one  occasion  he 
almost  discovered  his  real  power.  It  was  a  long 
letter  to  the  London  Times  on  the  \Viltshire  farmer, 
which  provoked  much  discussion;  but  alas!  he  failed 
to  grasp  the  advantage  of  this  opportunity.  For  years 
he  struggled  to  make  novel  writing  the  success  of  his 
life,  but  "he  never  was  a  novelist,"  says  Mr.  Besant 
frankly,  "  he  never  could  be."  Then  almost  by 
chance,  after  he  had  married  and  left  his  native 
hamlet  for  "nature  near  London,"  he  came  to 
realise,  by  slow  achievement  through  uncertainty 
and  bitter  struggle,  his  innate  sense  of  beauty, 
and  to  learn  that  as  an  interpreter  of  Nature  rather 


INTRODUCTION 


than  of  human  life  he  was  to  find  his  place  and  work 
in  the  world.  The  heart  of  the  poet  spoke  at  last, 
the  conscious  thinker  struggled  into  being,  his 
vivid  pictures  of  rural  life  brought  him  the  reward 
of  fame,  and  an  appreciative  portion  of  the  world 
read  with  pleasure  The  Life  of  the  Fields,  The  Open 
Air,  Wild  Life  in  a  Southern  County,  and  the  throbbing 
Story  of  my  Heart. 

"His  mature  authorship,"  says  Mr.  Salt,  "dates 
from  the  commencement  of  his  five  years'  residence 
at  Surbiton,  to  which  place  he  came  in  1877  in 
order  to  be  nearer  London,  while  yet  preserving 
what  was  to  him  a  necessity  of  existence  —  a  secure 
foothold  in  the  country.  This  Surbiton  period  was  a 
most  important  one  in  JefFeries'  career,  not  so  much 
because  it  provided  material  for  those  notable  essays 
which  are  comprised  under  the  title  of  Nature  near 
London,zs  it  marked  his  progression  from  journalism 
to  literature,  from  observation  to  thought.  Coate, 
it  is  true,  was  still  to  be  the  background  of  his 
finest  word  pictures  ;  but  the  influence  of  London 
was  very  powerful  in  quickening  and  humanising  his 
imagination,  for  now  for  the  first  time  he  saw  the 
poetry  that  is  in  the  great  city  as  well  as  the  poetry 
that  is  in  the  open  fields,  and  was  able  to  ponder 
deeply  and  fervently  on  the  vast  social  problems  of 
his  time.  It  is  no  mere  paradox  to  say  that  he 
learnt  the  message  of  the  country  by  coming  to  the 


INTRODUCTION 

town.  The  true  significance  of  Nature,  in  its 
bearing  on  human  destiny,  was  now  gradually 
unfolded  to  him;  and  what  had  before  been  crude 
knowledge  was  now  ripened  into  wisdom." 

The  papers  which  make  up  this  volume  were 
written  for  the  Standard  and  were  published  early 
in  1883.  "The  question  may  be  asked,"  says 
Jefferies  in  his  preface,  "why  have  you  not  indicated 
the  precise  locality  where  you  were  so  pleased  ? 
Why  not  mention  the  exact  hedge,  the  particular 
meadow  ?  Because  no  two  persons  look  at  the  same 
thing  with  the  same  eyes.  To  me  this  spot  may  be 
attractive,  to  you  another;  a  third  may  think  yonder 
gnarled  oak  the  most  artistic.  Nor  can  I  guarantee 
that  every  one  should  see  the  same  things  under  the 
same  conditions  of  season,  time,  or  weather.  How 
could  I  arrange  for  you  next  autumn  to  see  the 
sprays  of  the  horse-chestnut,  scarlet  from  frost, 
reflected  in  the  dark  water  of  the  brook  ?  There 
might  not  be  any  frost  till  all  the  leaves  had  dropped. 
How  could  I  contrive  that  the  cuckoos  should 
circle  round  the  copse,  the  sunlight  glint  upon  the 
stream,  the  warm  sweet  wind  come  breathing  over 
the  young  corn  when  I  should  wish  you  to  feel  it  ? 
Every  one  must  find  their  own  locality.  I  find  a 
favourite  wild  flower  here  and  the  spot  is  dear  to  me; 
you  find  yours  yonder.  Neither  painter  nor  writer 
can  show  the  spectator  their  originals." 


INTRODUCTION 

So  universal  is  Nature,  so  subtle  her  elusive 
beauty,  that  only  one  with  a  heart  open  to  the 
immensity  of  things  and  the  soul  of  a  poet,  could 
perceive  and  feel  the  charm  and  influence  of 
Nature  about  mighty  London.  "  The  strong  life 
of  the  vast  city  magnetised  me,  and  I  felt  it  under 
the  calm  oaks."  "  I  am  quite  as  familiar  with 
London  as  with  the  country,"  he  wrote  to  a  cor- 
respondent. "  Some  people  have  the  idea  that  my 
knowledge  is  confined  to  the  fields ;  as  a  matter  of 
fact,  I  have  had  quite  as  much  to  do  with  London 
—  all  parts  of  it,  too  —  and  am  very  fond  of  what 
I  may  call  a  thickness  of  the  people  such  as  exists 
there.  I  like  the  solitude  of  the  hills,  and  the  hum 
of  the  most  crowded  city  ;  I  dislike  little  towns  and 
villages.  I  dream  in  London  quite  as  much  as  in 
the  woodlands.  It's  a  wonderful  place  to  dream  in." 
And  London,  sordid,  noisy,  jarring,  had  hints  of 
great  beauty  that  his  soul  could  follow.  At  night 
the  stars  were  there :  "  I  never  forget  them,  not 
even  in  the  restless  Strand ;  they  face  one  coming 
down  the  hill  of  the  Haymarket ;  in  Trafalgar 
Square,  looking  towards  the  high  dark  structure  of 
the  House  of  Westminster,  the  clear  bright  steel 
silver  of  the  planet  Jupiter  shines  unwearied,  with- 
out sparkle  or  flicker." 

London  produces  its  own  sky,  he  says,  and  he 
thought  this  sky  could  best  be  studied  from  the  great 


INTRODUCTION 

bridges,  where  there  is  some  breadth  of  horizon. 
"  Sometimes  upon  Westminster  Bridge  at  night  the 
scene  is  very  striking.  Vast  rugged  columns  of 
vapour  rise  up  behind  and  over  the  towers  of  the 
House,  hanging  with  threatening  aspect ;  westward 
the  sky  is  nearly  clear,  with  some  relic  of  the  sunset 
glow ;  the  river  itself,  black  or  illuminated  with  the 
electric  light,  imparting  a  silvery  blue  tint,  crossed 
again  with  the  red  lamps  of  the  steamers."  Of  the 
thousands  that  cross  this  bridge  daily,  few  indeed  we 
fancy  pause  to  think  that  beauty  of  the  open  air, 
natural  loveliness,  may  be  found  there.  Few  have 
time  to  pause  at  all  perhaps,  unless  they  be  strangers 
lingering  to  take  a  view  of  the  Parliament  buildings 
and  the  Abbey.  But  a  Jefferies  comes  that  way, 
and  amidst  all  the  outward  distraction  and  the  in- 
ward worry,  the  drudgery  and  anxiety  of  poverty,  he 
notes  the  glimpses  of  the  divine,  the  deep  preva- 
lent mystery  of  something  that  lies  just  beyond  the 
senses,  —  something  that  the  senses  only  guess  — 
something  that  may  be  felt  among  the  lush  meadows, 
or  on  the  breezy  downs,  and  by  the  dingy  London 
riverside  as  well. 

Even  the  monotony  of  red  Bermondsey  roofs  was 
suggestive  to  Jefferies  :  "  These  red-tiled  roofs  have 
a  distinctiveness,  a  character;  they  are  something 
to  think  about.  .  .  .  Under  this  surface  of  roofs 
what  a  profundity  of  life  there  is !  "  If  this  endless 


INTRODUCTION 


succession  of  roofs  could  be  found  not  unpleasingly 
suggestive,  it  is  little  wonder  that,  standing  in  Trafal- 
gar Square,  the  man  could  see  much  beauty  before 
him.  "At  my  back,  within  the  gallery,  there  is  many 
a  canvas  painted  under  Italian  skies,  in  glowing 
Spain,  in  bright  southern  France.  But  yet,  if  any 
one  impartial  will  stand  here  outside,  under  the 
portico,  and  forgetting  that  it  is  prosaic  London, 
will  look  at  the  summer  inclosed  within  the  square, 
and  acknowledge  it  for  itself  as  it  is,  he  must  admit 
that  the  view  —  light  and  colour,  tone  and  shade  — 
is  equal  to  the  painted  canvas,  is  full,  as  it  were,  to 
the  brim  of  interest,  suggestion,  and  delight.  Trace 
out  the  colour  and  the  brightness;  gaze  up  into  the 
sky,  watch  the  swallows,  note  the  sparkle  of  the 
fountain,  observe  the  distant  tower  chiselled  with 
the  light  and  shade."  The  charm,  the  colour,  the 
endless  variety,  are  there;  only  the  seeing  eye  is 
needed.  It  is  well  to  be  reminded  sometimes,  by 
the  words  of  a  genius  like  Jefferies,  that  the  elements 
of  beauty  are  never  far  to  seek;  if  we  miss  them  in 
town,  we  are  not  likely  to  find  them  in  the  country. 
Jefferies  had  been  living  at  Surbiton,  a  suburb  of 
London,  for  four  years  when  his  illness  began,  in 
1 88 1,  and  from  that  time  until  the  end,  in  1887,  his 
life  was  a  constant  fight  against  "  three  great  giants, 
disease,  despair,  and  poverty."  In  all  the  annals  of 
literature  we  know  of  no  sadder  life  nor  more  heroic 


INTRODUCTION 


struggle  —  indeed  almost  superhuman  —  than  these 
last  few  years  of  JefFeries,  in  which  through  intense 
suffering  he  produced  his  wonderfully  beautiful  essays, 
unsurpassed  as  prose-poems  by  anything  in  the  Eng- 
lish language. 

This  is  the  brief  outline  of  JefFeries'  life.  For 
a  more  complete  and  fuller  account  the  reader 
is  referred  to  The  Eulogy  of  Richard  'Jejferies  by 
Walter  Besant,  and  to  Mr.  H.  S.  Salt's  compre- 
hensive Study.  There  are  no  further  incidents  of 
interest  to  record,  save  those  of  work  and  illness. 
He  was  always  a  silent  man,  always  a  man  of  few 
friends,  always  a  man  of  simple  habits,  in  all  weathers 
delighting  to  be  out  of  doors.  We  are  told  that 
he  worked,  he  walked,  he  wrote,  he  walked  again, 
he  read,  he  watched,  and  observed,  and  thought. 
That  was  his  life  until  the  terrible  malady  fell 
upon  him. 

He  changed  his  residence  several  times.  From 
Surbiton  he  went,  in  1882,  to  West  Brighten; 
thence,  in  1884,  to  Eltham.  Then,  evidently 
with  an  irresistible  yearning  for  some  place  more 
solitary,  he  moved  again  to  a  cottage  near  Crow- 
borough  Hill,  the  highest  spot  in  Sussex.  Again 
he  stayed  for  a  few  weeks  on  the  Quantock  Hills, 
Somerset,  his  suffering  increasing  and  his  strength 
failing.  Lastly  he  moved  to  a  house  called  "Sea 
View,"  at  Goring,  where  he  died  in  his  thirty-ninth 


INTRODUCTION 


year,  on  August   14,  1887,  and  was  buried  in  the 
neighbouring  cemetery  of  Broadwater. 

In  one  of  the  transepts  of  Salisbury  Cathedral  is 
a  marble  bust  of  Jefferies,  placed  there  March  9, 
1892,  by  his  friends  and  admirers,  and  upon  the 
pedestal  is  graven  this  worthy  tribute:  — 

To    THE    MEMORY    OF    RlCHARD    JEFFERIES, 
BORN    AT    COATE    IN    THE    PARISH    OF    CHISELDEN    AND 

COUNTY  OF  WILTS,  6TH  NOVEMBER,   1848. 

DIED  AT  GORING  IN  THE  COUNTY  OF  SUSSEX, 

i4TH  AUGUST,   1887. 

WHO    OBSERVING    THE    WORK    OF    ALMIGHTY    GOD 

WITH    A    POET'S    EYE, 

HAS    ENRICHED    THE    LITERATURE    OF    HIS    COUNTRY, 

AND    WON    FOR    HIMSELF    A    PLACE    AMONGST 

THOSE    WHO    HAVE    MADE    MEN 

HAPPIER    AND    WISER. 

All  lovers  of  Nature  who  read  these  essays 
cannot  fail  to  catch  a  breath  of  a  purer,  finer  atmos- 
phere from  this  great  soul  who  strove  through  all 
to  gain  sustenance  for  thought,  and  life  from  the 
mere  contemplation  and  absorption  of  natural 
beauty.  To  him  an  undiscovered  country  lay  in 
the  world  about  our  feet,  an  unknown  magic  dwelt 


INTRODUCTION 

in  sun  and  stars  to  lift  the  soul  unto  unimaginable 
altitudes. 

"  Still  glides  the  stream  and  shall  for  ever  glide  ; 
The  Form  remains,  the  Function  never  dies ; 
While  we  the  brave,  the  mighty,  and  the  wise, 
We  men,  who  in  our  morn  of  youth  defied 
The  elements,  must  vanish  ;  —  be  it  so  ! 
Enough,  if  something  from  our  hands  have  power 
To  live,  and  act,  and  serve  the  future  hour  ; 
And  if,  as  toward  the  silent  land  we  go, 
Through  love,  through  hope,  and  faith's  transcendent 

dower, 
We  feel  that  we  are  greater  than  we  know." 

T.  C.  W. 


—  xxii  — 


&-- .-js;:;* -  -JT^ £.•< >:::;. *-•< >;:-' >••". £-< >r 

NATURE  NEAR  LONDON 


WOODLANDS 


^HE  tiny  white  petals  of  the  barren 
strawberry  open  under  the  April  sun- 
shine which,  as  yet  unchecked  by 
crowded  foliage  above,  can  reach  the 
moist  banks  under  the  trees.  It  is  then  that  the 
first  stroll  of  the  year  should  be  taken  in  Claygate- 
lane.  The  slender  runners  of  the  strawberries  trail 
over  the  mounds  among  the  moss,  some  of  the 
flowers  but  just  above  the  black  and  brown  leaves 
of  last  year  which  fill  the  shallow  ditch.  These 
will  presently  be  hidden  under  the  grass  which  is 
pushing  up  long  blades  and  bending  over  like  a 
plume. 

Crimson  stalks  and  leaves  of  herb  Robert  stretch 
across  the  little  cavities  of  the  mound ;  lower,  and 
rising  almost  from  the  water  of  the  ditch,  the  wild 
parsnip  spreads  its  broad  fan.  Slanting  among  the 
underwood,  against  which  it  leans,  the  dry  white 
"  gix  "  (cow-parsnip)  of  last  year  has  rotted  from 
its  root,  and  is  only  upheld  by  branches. 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     S-^K 

Yellowish  green  cup-like  leaves  are  forming 
upon  the  brown  and  drooping  heads  of  the  spurge, 
which,  sheltered  by  the  bushes,  has  endured  the 
winter's  frosts.  The  lads  pull  them  off,  and  break 
the  stems,  to  watch  the  white  "  milk  "  well  up,  the 
whole  plant  being  full  of  acrid  juice.  Whorls  of 
woodruff  and  grass-like  leaves  of  stitchwort  are 
rising ;  the  latter  holds  but  feebly  to  the  earth,  and 
even  in  snatching  the  flower  the  roots  sometimes 
give  way  and  the  plant  is  lifted  with  it. 

Upon  either  hand  the  mounds  are  so  broad  that 
they  in  places  resemble  covers  rather  than  hedges, 
thickly  grown  with  bramble  and  briar,  hazel  and 
hawthorn,  above  which  the  straight  trunks  of 
young  oaks  and  Spanish  chestnuts  stand  in  crowded 
but  careless  ranks.  The  leaves  which  dropped  in 
the  preceding  autumn  from  these  trees  still  lie 
on  the  ground  under  the  bushes,  dry  and  brittle,  and 
the  blackbirds  searching  about  among  them  cause 
as  much  rustling  as  if  some  animal  were  routing 
about. 

As  the  month  progresses,  these  wide  mounds 
become  completely  green,  hawthorn  and  bramble, 
briar  and  hazel,  put  forth  their  leaves,  and  the  eye 
can  no  longer  see  into  the  recesses.  But  above, 
the  oaks  and  edible  chestnuts  are  still  dark  and 
leafless,  almost  black  by  contrast  with  the  vivid 
green  beneath  them.  Upon  their  bare  boughs  the 


WOODLANDS 


birds  are  easily  seen,  but  the  moment  they  descend 
among  the  bushes  are  difficult  to  find.  Chaffinches 
call  and  challenge  continually  —  these  trees  are 
their  favourite  resort  —  and  yellowhammers  flit 
along  the  underwood. 

Behind  the  broad  hedge  are  the  ploughed  fields 
they  love,  alternating  with  meadows  down  whose 
hedges  again  a  stream  of  birds  is  always  flowing  to 
the  lane.  Bright  as  are  the  colours  of  the  yellow- 
hammer,  when  he  alights  among  the  brown  clods 
of  the  ploughed  field  he  is  barely  visible,  for  brown 
conceals  like  vapour.  A  white  butterfly  comes 
fluttering  along  the  lane,  and  as  it  passes  under  a 
tree  a  chaffinch  swoops  down  and  snaps  at  it,  but 
rises  again  without  doing  apparent  injury,  for  the 
butterfly  continues  its  flight. 

From  an  oak  overhead  comes  the  sweet  slender 
voice  of  a  linnet,  the  sunshine  falling  on  his  rosy 
breast.  The  gateways  show  the  thickness  of  the 
hedge,  as  an  embrasure  shows  the  thickness  of  a 
wall.  One  gives  entrance  to  an  arable  field  which 
has  been  recently  rolled,  and  along  the  gentle  rise 
of  a  "  land  "  a  cock-pheasant  walks,  so  near  that 
the  ring  about  his  neck  is  visible.  Presently,  be- 
coming conscious  that  he  is  observed,  he  goes  down 
into  a  furrow,  and  is  then  hidden. 

The  next  gateway,  equally  deep-set  between  the 
bushes,  opens  on  a  pasture,  where  the  docks  of 
—  3  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

last  year  still  cumber  the  ground,  and  bunches  of 
rough  grass  and  rushes  are  scattered  here  and  there. 
A  partridge  separated  from  his  mate  is  calling 
across  the  field,  and  comes  running  over  the  short 
sward  as  his  companion  answers.  With  his  neck 
held  high  and  upright,  stretched  to  see  around,  he 
looks  larger  than  would  be  supposed,  as  he  runs 
swiftly,  threading  his  way  through  the  tufts,  the 
docks,  and  the  rushes.  But  suddenly  noticing  that 
the  gateway  is  not  clear,  he  crouches,  and  is  con- 
cealed by  the  grass. 

Some  distance  further  there  is  a  stile,  sitting 
upon  which  the  view  ranges  over  two  adjacent 
meadows.  They  are  bounded  by  a  copse  of  ash 
stoles  and  young  oak  trees,  and  the  lesser  of  the 
meads  is  full  of  rush  bunches  and  dotted  with  green 
ant-hills.  Among  these,  just  beyond  gunshot,  two 
rabbits  are  feeding;  pausing  and  nibbling  till  they 
have  eaten  the  tcnderest  blades,  and  then  leisurely 
hopping  a  yard  or  so  to  another  spot.  Later  on  in 
the  summer  this  little  meadow  which  divides  the 
lane  from  the  copse  is  alive  with  rabbits. 

Along  the  hedge  the  brake  fern  has  then  grown, 
in  the  corner  by  the  copse  there  is  a  beautiful  mass 
of  it,  and  several  detached  bunches  away  from  the 
hedge  among  the  ant-hills.  From  out  of  the  fern, 
which  is  a  favourite  retreat  with  them,  rabbits  are 
continually  coming,  feeding  awhile,  darting  after 
—4  — 


WOODLANDS 

each  other,  and  back  again  to  cover.  To-day  there 
are  but  three,  and  they  do  not  venture  far  from 
their  buries. 

Watching  these,  a  green  woodpecker  cries  in 
the  copse,  and  immediately  afterwards  flies  across 
the  mead  and  away  to  another  plantation.  Occa- 
sionally the  spotted  woodpecker  may  be  seen  here, 
a  little  bird  which,  in  the  height  of  summer,  is 
lost  among  the  foliage,  but  in  spring  and  winter 
can  be  observed  tapping  at  the  branches  of  the 
trees. 

I  think  I  have  seen  more  spotted  woodpeckers 
near  London  than  in  far  distant  and  nominally 
wilder  districts.  This  lane,  for  some  two  miles, 
is  lined  on  each  side  with  trees,  and,  besides  this 
particular  copse,  there  are  several  others  close  by  ; 
indeed,  stretching  across  the  country  to  another 
road,  there  is  a  succession  of  copses,  with  meadows 
between.  Birds  which  love  trees  are  naturally 
seen  flitting  to  and  fro  in  the  lane  ;  the  trees  are  at 
present  young,  but  as  they  grow  older  and  decay 
they  will  be  still  more  resorted  to. 

Jays  screech  in  the  trees  of  the  lane  almost  all 
the  year  round,  though  more  frequently  in  spring 
and  autumn,  but  I  rarely  walked  here  without  see- 
ing or  hearing  one.  Beyond  the  stile  the  lane 
descends  into  a  hollow,  and  is  bordered  by  a  small 
furze  common,  where,  under  shelter  of  the  hollow 
—  5  — 


2&^K     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

brambles  and  beneath  the  golden  bloom  of  the  furze, 
the  pale  anemones  flower. 

When  the  June  roses  open  their  petals  on  the 
briars,  and  the  scent  of  new-mown  hay  is  wafted 
over  the  hedge  from  the  meadows,  the  lane  seems 
to  wind  through  a  continuous  wood.  The  oaks 
and  chestnuts,  though  too  young  to  form  a  com- 
plete arch,  cross  their  green  branches,  and  cast  a 
delicious  shadow.  For  it  is  in  the  shadow  that  we 
enjoy  the  summer,  looking  forth  from  the  gateway 
upon  the  mowing-grass  where  the  glowing  sun 
pours  down  his  fiercest  beams. 

Tall  bennets  and  red  sorrel  rise  above  the  grass, 
white  ox-eye  daisies  chequer  it  below  ;  the  distant 
hedge  quivers  as  the  air,  set  in  motion  by  the  in- 
tense heat,  runs  along.  The  sweet  murmuring 
coo  of  the  turtledove  comes  from  the  copse,  and 
the  rich  notes  of  the  blackbird  from  the  oak  into 
which  he  has  mounted  to  deliver  them. 

Slight  movements  in  the  hawthorn,  or  in  the 
depths  of  the  tall  hedge  grasses,  movements  too 
quick  for  the  glance  to  catch  their  cause,  are  where 
some  tiny  bird  is  passing  from  spray  to  spray.  It 
may  be  a  whitethroat  creeping  among  the  nettles 
after  his  wont,  or  a  wren.  The  spot  where  he 
was  but  a  second  since  may  be  traced  by  the  trem- 
bling of  the  leaves,  but  the  keenest  attention  may 
fail  to  detect  where  he  is  now.  That  slight 
—  6  — 


WOODLANDS 

motion  in  the  hedge,  however,  conveys  an  impres- 
sion of  something  living  everywhere  within. 

There  are  birds  in  the  oaks  overhead  whose 
voice  is  audible  though  they  are  themselves  unseen. 
From  out  of  the  mowing-grass  finches  rise. and  fly 
to  the  hedge  ;  from  the  hedge  again  others  fly  out, 
and  descending  into  the  grass,  are  concealed  as  in 
a  forest.  A  thrush  travelling  along  the  hedgerow 
just  outside  goes  by  the  gateway  within  a  yard. 
Bees  come  upon  the  light  wind,  gliding  with  it, 
but  with  their  bodies  aslant  across  the  line  of 
current.  Butterflies  flutter  over  the  mowing-grass, 
hardly  clearing  the  bennets.  Many-coloured  insects 
creep  up  the  sorrel  stems  and  take  wing  from  the 
summit. 

Everything  gives  forth  a  sound  of  life.  The 
twittering  of  swallows  from  above,  the  song  of 
greenfinches  in  the  trees,  the  rustle  of  hawthorn 
sprays  moving  under  the  weight  of  tiny  creatures, 
the  buzz  upon  the  breeze ;  the  very  flutter  of  the 
butterflies'  wings,  noiseless  as  it  is,  and  the  wavy 
movement  of  the  heated  air  across  the  field  cause 
a  sense  of  motion  and  of  music. 

The  leaves  are  enlarging,  and  the  sap  rising,  and 
the  hard  trunks  of  the  trees  swelling  with  its  flow ; 
the  grass  blades  pushing  upwards  ;  the  seeds  com- 
pleting their  shape ;  the  tinted  petals  uncurling. 
Dreamily  listening,  leaning  on  the  gate,  all  these 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

are  audible  to  the  inner  senses,  while  the  ear  fol- 
lows the  midsummer  hum,  now  sinking,  now  so- 
norously increasing  over  the  oaks.  An  effulgence 
fills  the  southern  boughs,  which  the  eye  cannot 
sustain,  but  which  it  knows  is  there. 

The  sun  at  his  meridian  pours  forth  his  light, 
forgetting,  in  all  the  inspiration  of  his  strength  and 
glory,  that  without  an  altar  screen  of  green  his  love 
must  scorch.  Joy  in  life ;  joy  in  life.  The  ears 
listen,  and  want  more  ;  the  eyes  are  gratified  with 
gazing,  and  desire  yet  further ;  the  nostrils  are 
filled  with  the  sweet  odours  of  flower  and  sap. 
The  touch,  too,  has  its  pleasures,  dallying  with  leaf 
and  flower.  Can  you  not  almost  grasp  the  odour- 
laden  air  and  hold  it  in  the  hollow  of  the  hand  ? 

Leaving  the  spot  at  last,  and  turning  again  into 
the  lane,  the  shadows  dance  upon  the  white  dust 
under  the  feet,  irregularly  circular  spots  of  light 
surrounded  with  umbra  shift  with  the  shifting 
branches.  By  the  wayside  lie  rings  of  dandelion 
stalks,  carelessly  cast  down  by  the  child  who  made 
them,  and  tufts  of  delicate  grasses  gathered  for 
their  beauty  but  now  sprinkled  with  dust.  Wisps 
of  hay  hang  from  the  bower  boughs  of  the  oaks 
where  they  brushed  against  the  passing  load. 

After  a  time,  when  the  corn  is  ripening,  the 
herb  betony  flowers  on  the  mounds  under  the  oaks. 
Following  the  lane  down  the  hill  and  across  the 
—  8  — 


WOODLANDS 


small  furze  common  at  the  bottom,  the  marks  of 
traffic  fade  away,  the  dust  ceases,  and  is  succeeded 
by  sward.  The  hedgerows  on  either  side  are  here 
higher  than  ever,  and  are  thickly  fringed  with 
bramble  bushes,  which- sometimes  encroach  on  the 
waggon  ruts  in  the  middle,  and  are  covered  with 
flowers,  and  red  and  green  and  ripe  blackberries 
together. 

Green  rushes  line  the  way,  and  green  dragon- 
flies  dart  above  them.  Thistledown  is  pouting 
forth  from  the  swollen  tops  of  thistles  crowded  with 
seed.  In  a  gateway  the  turf  has  been  worn  away 
by  waggon  wheels  and  the  hoofs  of  cart-horses, 
and  the  dry  heat  has  pulverised  the  crumbling  ruts. 
Three  hen  pheasants  and  a  covey  of  partridges 
that  have  been  dusting  themselves  here  move  away 
without  much  haste  at  the  approach  of  footsteps  — 
the  pheasants  into  the  thickets,  and  the  partridges 
through  the  gateway.  The  shallow  holes  in  which 
they  were  sitting  can  be  traced  on  the  dust,  and 
there  are  a  few  small  feathers  lying  about. 

A  barley  field  is  within  the  gate ;  the  mowers 
have  just  begun  to  cut  it  on  the  opposite  side. 
Next  to  it  is  a  wheatfield;  the  wheat  has  been 
cut  and  stands  in  shocks.  From  the  stubble  by 
the  nearest  shock  two  turtledoves  rise,  alarmed, 
and  swiftly  fly  towards  a  wood  which  bounds  the 
field.  This  wood,  indeed,  upon  looking  again, 
—  9  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

clearly  bounds  not  this  field  only,  but  the  second 
and  the  third,  and  so  far  as  the  eye  can  see  over 
the  low  hedges  of  the  corn,  the  trees  continue. 
The  green  lane,  as  it  enters  the  wood,  becomes 
wilder  and  rougher  at  every  step,  widening,  too, 
considerably. 

In  the  centre  the  wheels  of  timber  carriages, 
heavily  laden  wifh  trunks  of  trees  which  were 
dragged  through  by  straining  teams  in  the  rainy  days 
of  spring,  have  left  vast  ruts,  showing  that  they 
must  have  sunk  to  the  axle  in  the  soft  clay.  These 
then  filled  with  water,  and  on  the  water  duckweed 
grew  and  aquatic  grasses  at  the  sides.  Summer 
heats  have  evaporated  the  water,  leaving  the  weeds 
and  grasses  prone  upon  the  still  moist  earth. 

Rushes  have  sprung  up  and  mark  the  line  of  the 
ruts,  and  willow  stoles,  bramble  bushes,  and  thorns 
growing  at  the  side,  make,  as  it  were,  a  third  hedge 
in  the  middle  of  the  lane.  The  best  path  is  by  the 
wood  itself,  but  even  there  occasional  leaps  are 
necessary  over  pools  of  dark  water  full  of  vegeta- 
tion. These  alternate  with  places  where  the  ground, 
being  higher,  yawns  with  wide  cracks  crumbling  at 
the  edge,  the  heat  causing  the  clay  to  split  and  open. 
In  winter  it  must  be  an  impassable  quagmire ;  now 
it  is  dry  and  arid. 

Rising  out  of  this  low-lying  spot,  the  lane  again 
becomes  green  and  pleasant,  and  is  crossed  by  an- 


WOODL  AN  DS 

other.  At  the  meeting  of  these  four  ways  some 
boughs  hang  over  a  green  bank  where  I  have  often 
rested.  In  front  the  lane  is  barred  by  a  gate,  but 
beyond  the  gate  it  still  continues  its  straight  course 
into  the  wood.  To  the  left  the  track,  crossing  at 
right  angles,  also  proceeds  into  the  wood,  but  it  is 
so  overhung  with  trees  and  blocked  by  bushes  that 
its  course  after  the  first  hundred  yards  or  so  can- 
not be  traced. 

To  the  right  the  track  —  a  little  wider  and 
clearer  of  bushes  —  extends  through  wood,  and  as 
it  is  straight  and  rises  up  a  gentle  slope,  the  eye  can 
travel  along  it  half  a  mile.  There  is  nothing  but 
wood  around.  This  track  to  the  right  appears 
the  most  used,  and  has  some  ruts  in  the  centre. 
The  sward  each  side  is  concealed  by  endless  this- 
tles, on  the  point  of  sending  forth  clouds  of  thistle- 
down, and  to  which  presently  the  goldfinches  will 
be  attracted. 

Occasionally  a  movement  among  the  thistles 
betrays  the  presence  of  a  rabbit ;  only  occasionally, 
for  though  the  banks  are  drilled  with  buries,  the 
lane  is  too  hot  for  them  at  midday.  Particles  of 
rabbits'  fur  lie  on  the  ground,  and  their  runs  are 
visible  in  every  direction.  But  there  are  no  birds. 
A  solitary  robin,  indeed,  perches  on  an  ash  branch 
opposite,  and  regards  me  thoughtfully.  It  is  im- 
possible to  go  anywhere  in  the  open  air  without  a 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     s=^S 

robin ;  they  are  the  very  spies  of  the  woods.  But 
there  are  no  thrushes,  no  blackbirds,  finches,  nor 
even  sparrows. 

In  August  it  is  true  most  birds  cease  to  sing,  but 
sitting  thus  partially  hidden  and  quiet,  if  there  were 
any  about  something  would  be  heard  of  them. 
There  would  be  a  rustling,  a  thrush  would  fly 
across  the  lane,  a  blackbird  would  appear  by  the 
gateway  yonder  in  the  shadow  which  he  loves,  a 
finch  would  settle  in  the  oaks.  None  of  these 
incidents  occur;  none  of  the  lesser  signs  of  life  in 
the  foliage,  the  tremulous  spray,  the  tap  of  a  bill 
cleaned  by  striking  first  one  side  and  then  the  other 
against  a  bough,  the  rustle  of  a  wing  —  nothing. 

There  are  woods,  woods,  woods ;  but  no  birds. 
Yonder  a  drive  goes  straight  into  the  ash  poles,  it  is 
green  above  and  green  below,  but  a  long  watch  will 
reveal  nothing  living.  The  dry  mounds  must  be 
full  of  rabbits,  there  must  be  pheasants  somewhere ; 
but  nothing  visible.  Once  only  a  whistling  sound 
in  the  air  directs  the  glance  upwards ;  it  is  a  wood- 
pigeon  flying  at  full  speed.  There  are  no  bees, 
for  there  are  no  flowers.  There  are  no  butterflies. 
The  black  flies  are  not  numerous,  and  rarely  require 
a  fanning  from  the  ash  spray  carried  to  drive 
them  off! 

Two  large  dragon-flies  rush  up  and  down,  and 
cross  the  lane,  and  rising  suddenly  almost  to  the 


WOODLANDS 


tops  of  the  oaks,  swoop  down  again  in  bold  sweep- 
ing curves.  The  broad,  deep  ditch  between  the 
lane  and  the  mound  of  the  wood  is  dry,  but  there 
are  no  short  rustling  sounds  of  mice. 

The  only  sound  is  the  continuous  singing  of  the 
grasshoppers,  and  the  peculiar  snapping  noise  they 
make  as  they  spring,  leaping  along  the  sward. 
The  fierce  sun  of  the  ripe  wheat  pours  down  a 
fiery  glow  scarcely  to  be  borne  except  under  the 
boughs ;  the  hazel  leaves  already  have  lost  their 
green,  the  tips  of  the  rushes  are  shrivelling,  the 
grass  becoming  brown  ;  it  is  a  scorched  and 
parched  desert  of  wood. 

The  finches  have  gone  forth  in  troops  to  the 
stubble  where  the  wheat  has  been  cut,  and  where 
they  can  revel  on  the  seeds  of  the  weeds  now  ripe. 
Thrushes  and  blackbirds  have  gone  to  the  streams, 
to  splash  and  bathe,  and  to  the  mown  meadows, 
where  in  the  short  aftermath  they  can  find  their 
food.  There  they  will  look  out  on  the  shady  side 
of  the  hedge  as  the  sun  declines,  six  or  eight 
perhaps  of  them  along  the  same  hedge,  but  all  in 
the  shadow,  where  the  dew  forms  first  as  the 
evening  falls,  where  the  grass  feels  cool  and  moist, 
while  still  on  the  sunny  side  it  is  warm  and  dry. 

The  bees  are  busy  on  the  heaths  and  along  the 
hill-tops,  where  there  are  still  flowers  and  honey, 
and  the  butterflies  are  with  them.  So  the  woods 
—  13  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     ig-^-m 

are  silent,  still,  and  deserted,  save  by  a  stray  rabbit 
among  the  thistles,  and  the  grasshoppers  ceaselessly 
leaping  in  the  grass. 

Returning  presently  to  the  gateway  just  outside 
the  wood,  where  upon  first  coming  the  pheasants 
and  partridges  were  dusting  themselves,  a  waggon 
is  now  passing  among  the  corn  and  is  being  laden 
with  the  sheaves.  But  afar  off,  across  the  broad 
field  and  under  the  wood,  it  seems  somehow  only 
a  part  of  the  silence  and  the  solitude.  The  men 
with  it  move  about  the  stubble,  calmly  toiling ; 
the  horses,  having  drawn  it  a  little  way,  become 
motionless,  reposing  as  they  stand,  every  line  of 
their  large  limbs  expressing  delight  in  physical  ease 
and  idleness. 

Perhaps  the  heat  has  made  the  men  silent,  for 
scarcely  a  word  is  spoken  ;  if  it  were,  in  the  still- 
ness it  must  be  heard,  though  they  are  at  some 
distance.  The  wheels,  well  greased  for  the  heavy 
harvest  work,  do  not  creak.  Save  an  occasional 
monosyllable,  as  the  horses  are  ordered  on,  or  to 
stop,  and  a  faint  rustling  of  straw,  there  is  no  sound. 
It  may  be  the  flood  of  brilliant  light,  or  the  mirage 
of  the  heat,  but  in  some  way  the  waggon  and  its 
rising  load,  the  men  and  the  horses,  have  an  un- 
reality of  appearance. 

The  yellow  wheat  and  stubble,  the  dull  yellow 
of  the  waggon,  toned  down  by  years  of  weather, 
—  14  — 


WOODLANDS 

the  green  woods  near  at  hand,  darkening  in  the 
distance  and  slowly  changing  to  blue,  the  cloudless 
sky,  the  heat-suffused  atmosphere,  in  which  things 
seem  to  float  rather  than  to  grow  or  stand,  the 
shadowless  field,  all  are  there,  and  yet  are  not 
there,  but  far  away  and  vision-like.  The  waggon, 
at  last  laden,  travels  away,  and  seems  rather  to 
disappear  of  itself  than  to  be  hidden  by  the  trees. 
It  is  an  effort  to  awake  and  move  from  the  spot. 


—  15  — 


FOOTPATHS 


"  *A  L WA YS  get  over  a  stile,"  is  the  one  rule 
a\  \  that  should  ever  be  borne  in  mind  by 
/f==\  \  those  who  wish  to  see  the  land  as  it 
*/L  >  \  really  is — that  is  to  say,  never  omit 
to  explore  a  footpath,  for  never  was  there  a  foot- 
path yet  which  did  not  pass  something  of  interest. 

In  the  meadows  everything  comes  pressing 
lovingly  up  to  the  path.  The  small-leaved  clover 
can  scarce  be  driven  back  by  frequent  footsteps 
from  endeavouring  to  cover  the  bare  earth  of  the 
centre.  Tall  buttercups,  round  whose  stalks  the 
cattle  have  carefully  grazed,  stand  in  ranks  ;  strong 
ox-eye  daisies,  with  broad  white  disks  and  torn 
leaves,  form  with  the  grass  the  tricolour  of  the 
pasture  —  white,  green,  and  gold. 

When  the  path  enters  the  mowing-grass,  ripe 
for  the  scythe,  the  simplicity  of  these  cardinal  hues 
is  lost  in  the  multitude  of  shades  and  the  addition 
of  other  colours.  The  surface  of  mowing-grass 
is  indeed  made  up  of  so  many  tints  that  at  the  first 
glance  it  is  confusing;  and  hence,  perhaps,  it  is 
that  hardly  ever  has  an  artist  succeeded  in  getting 
— 16  — 


FOOTPATHS 


the  effect  upon  canvas.  Of  the  million  blades  of 
grass  no  two  are  of  the  same  shade. 

Pluck  a  handful  and  spread  them  out  side  by 
side  and  this  is  at  once  evident.  Nor  is  any  single 
blade  the  same  shade  all  the  way  up.  There  may 
be  a  faint  yellow  towards  the  root,  a  full  green 
about  the  middle,  at  the  tip  perhaps  the  hot  sun 
has  scorched  it,  and  there  is  a  trace  of  brown. 
The  older  grass,  which  comes  up  earliest,  is  dis- 
tinctly different  in  tint  from  that  which  has  but 
just  reached  its  greatest  height,  and  in  which  the 
sap  has  not  yet  stood  still. 

Under  all  there  is  the  new  grass,  short,  sweet, 
and  verdant,  springing  up  fresh  between  the  old, 
and. giving  a  tone  to  the  rest  as- you  look  down 
into  the  bunches.  Some  blades  are  nearly  grey, 
some  the  palest  green,  and  among  them  others, 
torn  from  the  roots  perhaps  by  rooks  searching  for 
grubs,  are  quite  white.  The  very  track  of  a  rook 
through  the  grass  leaves  a  different  shade  each 
side,  as  the  blades  are  bent  or  trampled  down. 

The  stalks  of  the  bennets  vary,  some  green, 
some  yellowish,  some  brown,  some  approaching 
whiteness,  according  to  age  and  the  condition  of 
the  sap.  Their  tops,  too,  are  never  the  same, 
whether  the  pollen  clings  to  the  surface  or  whether 
it  has  gone.  Here  the  green  is  almost  lost  in  red, 
or  quite;  here  the  grass  has  a  soft,  velvety  look; 

a  —  17  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

yonder  it  is  hard  and  wiry,  and  again  graceful  and 
drooping.  Here  there  are  bunches  so  rankly  ver- 
dant that  no  flower  is  visible  and  no  other  tint  but 
dark  green ;  here  it  is  thin  and  short,  and  the 
flowers,  and  almost  the  turf  itself,  can  be  seen  ; 
then  there  is  an  array  of  bennets  (stalks  which 
bear  the  grass-seed)  with  scarcely  any  grass  proper. 

Every  variety  of  grass  —  and  they  are  many  — 
has  its  own  colour,  and  every.blade  of  every  variety 
has  its  individual  variations  of  that  colour.  The 
rain  falls,  and  there  is  a  darker  tint  at  large  upon 
the  field,  fresh  but  darker ;  the  sun  shines  and  at 
first  the  hue  is  lighter,  but  presently,  if  the  heat  last, 
a  brown  comes.  The  wind  blows,  and  immediately, 
as  the  waves  of  grass  roll  across  the  meadow,  a 
paler  tint  follows  it. 

A  clouded  sky  dulls  the  herbage,  a  cloudless 
heaven  brightens  it,  so  that  the  grass  almost  reflects 
the  firmament  like  water.  At  sunset  the  rosy  rays 
bring  out  every  tint  of  red  or  purple.  At  noon- 
day watch  as  alternate  shadow  and  sunshine  come 
one  after  the  other  as  the  clouds  are  wafted  over. 
By  moonlight  perhaps  the  white  ox-eyed  daisies 
show  the  most.  But  never  will  you  find  the 
mowing-^grass  in  the  same  field  looking  twice 
alike. 

Come  again  the  day  after  to-morrow  only,  and 
there  is  a  change ;  some  of  the  grass  is  riper,  some 
— 18  — 


FOOTPATHS 

is  thicker,  with  further  blades  which  have  pushed 
up,  some  browner.  Cold  northern  winds  cause  it 
to  wear  a  dry,  withered  aspect ;  under  warm 
showers  it  visibly  opens  itself;  in  a  hurricane  it 
tosses  itself  wildly  to  and  fro ;  it  laughs  under  the 
sunshine. 

There  are  thick  bunches  by  the  footpath,  which 
hang  over  and  brush  the  feet.  While  approaching 
there  seems  nothing  there  except  grass,  but  in  the 
act  of  passing,  and  thus  looking  straight  down  into 
them,  there  are  blue  eyes  at  the  bottom  gazing  up. 
These  specks  of  blue  sky  hidden  in  the  grass 
tempt  the  hand  to  gather  them,  but  then  you  can- 
not gather  the  whole  field. 

Behind  the  bunches  where  the  grass  is  thinner 
are  the  heads  of  purple  clover ;  pluck  one  of  these, 
and  while  meditating  draw  forth  petal  after  petal 
and  imbibe  the  honey  with  the  lips  till  nothing 
remains  but  the  green  framework,  like  stolen  jew- 
ellery from  which  the  gems  have  been  taken. 
Torn  pink  ragged  robins  through  whose  petals 
a  comb  seems  to  have  been  remorselessly  dragged, 
blue  scabious,  red  knapweeds,  yellow  rattles,  yellow 
vetchings  by  the  hedge,  white  flowering  parsley, 
white  campions,  yellow  tormentil,  golden  butter- 
cups, white  cuckoo-flowers,  dandelions,  yarrow, 
and  so  on,  all  carelessly  sown  broadcast  without 
order  or  method,  just  as  negligently  as  they  are 
—  19  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

named  here,  first  remembered,  first  mentioned,  and 
many  forgotten. 

Highest  and  coarsest  of  texture,  the  red-tipped 
sorrel  —  a  crumbling  red  —  so  thick  and  plentiful 
that  at  sunset  the  whole  mead  becomes  reddened. 
If  these  were  in  any  way  set  in  order  or  design, 
howsoever  entangled,  the  eye  might,  as  it  were, 
get  at  them  for  reproduction.  But  just  where 
there  should  be  flowers  there  are  none,  whilst  in 
odd  places  where  there  are  none  required  there  are 
plenty. 

In  hollows,  out  of  sight  till  stumbled  on,  is  a 
mass  of  colour;  on  the  higher  foreground  only  a 
dull  brownish  green.  Walk  all  round  the  meadow, 
and  still  no  vantage  point  can  be  found  where 
the  herbage  groups  itself,  whence  a  scheme  of 
colour  is  perceivable.  There  is  no  "  artistic " 
arrangement  anywhere. 

So,  too,  with  the  colours — of  the  shades  of 
green  something  has  already  been  said  —  and  here 
are  bright  blues  and  bright  greens,  yellows  and 
pinks,  positive  discords  and  absolute  antagonisms 
of  tint  side  by  side,  yet  without  jarring  the  eye. 
Green  all  round,  the  trees  and  hedges  ;  blue  over- 
head, the  sky ;  purple  and  gold  westward,  where 
the  sun  sinks.  No  part  of  this  grass  can  be 
represented  by  a  blur  or  broad  streak  of  colour,  for 
it  is  not  made  up  of  broad  streaks.  It  is  composed 


FOOTPATHS 


of  innumerable  items  of  grass  blade  and  flower, 
each  in  itself  coloured  and  different  from  its  neigh- 
bour. Not  one  of  these  must  be  slurred  over  if 
you  wish  to  get  the  same  effect. 

Then  there  are  drifting  specks  of  colour  which 
cannot  be  fixed.  Butterflies,  white,  parti-coloured, 
brown,  and  spotted,  and  light  blue  flutter  along 
beside  the  footpath  ;  two  white  ones  wheel  about 
each  other,  rising  higher  at  every  turn  till  they 
are  lost  and  no  more  to  be  distinguished  against 
a  shining  white  cloud.  Large  dark  humble-bees 
roam  slowly,  and  honey  bees  with  more  decided 
flight.  Glistening  beetles,  green  and  gold,  run 
across  the  bare  earth  of  the  path,  coming  from  one 
crack  in  the  dry  ground  and  disappearing  in  the 
(to  them)  mighty  chasm  of  another. 

Tiny  green  "  hoppers"  —  odd  creatures  shaped 
something  like  the  fancy  frogs  of  children's  story- 
books —  alight  upon  it  after  a  spring,  and  pausing 
a  second,  with  another  toss  themselves  as  high  as 
the  highest  bennet  (veritable  elm  trees  by  com- 
parison), to  fall  anywhere  out  of  sight  in  the  grass. 
Reddish  ants  hurry  over.  Time  is  money ;  and 
their  business  brooks  no  delay. 

Bee-like  flies  of  many  stripes  and  parti-coloured 
robes  face  you,  suspended  in  the  air  with  wings 
vibrating  so  swiftly  as  to  be  unseen  ;  then  suddenly 
jerk  themselves  a  few  yards,  to  recommence  hover- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

ing.  A  greenfinch  rises  with  a  yellow  gleam  and 
a  sweet  note  from  the  grass,  and  is  off  with  some- 
thing for  his  brood,  or  a  starling,  solitary  now,  for 
his  mate  is  in  the  nest,  startled  from  his  questing, 
goes  straight  away. 

Dark  starlings,  greenfinch,  gilded  fly,  glistening 
beetle,  blue  butterfly,  humble-bee  with  scarf  about 
his  thick  waist,  add  their  moving  dots  of  colour 
to  the  surface.  There  is  no  design,  no  balance, 
nothing  like  a  pattern  perfect  on  the  right-hand 
side,  and  exactly  equal  on  the  left-hand.  Even 
trees  which  have  some  semblance  of  balance  in 
form  are  not  really  so,  and  as  you  walk  round 
them  so  their  outline  changes. 

Now  the  path  approaches  a  stile  set  deep  in 
thorns  and  brambles,  and  hardly  to  be  gained  for 
curved  hooks  and  prickles.  But  on  the  briars 
June  roses  bloom,  arches  of  flowers  over  nettles, 
burdock,  and  rushes  in  the  ditch  beneath.  Sweet 
roses  —  buds  yet  unrolled,  white  and  conical ;  roses 
half  open  and  pink  tinted ;  roses  widespread,  the 
petals  curling  backwards  on  the  hedge,  abandoning 
their  beauty  to  the  sun.  In  the  pasture  over  the 
stile  a  roan  cow  feeds  unmoved,  calmly  content, 
gathering  the  grass  with  rough  tongue.  It  is  not 
only  what  you  actually  see  along  the  path,  but 
what  you  remember  to  have  seen,  that  gives  it  its 
beauty. 


FOOTPATHS 


From  hence  the  path  skirts  the  hedge  enclosing 
a  copse,  part  of  which  had  been  cut  in  the  winter, 
so  that  a  few  weeks  since  in  spring  the  bluebells 
could  be  seen,  instead  of  being  concealed  by  the 
ash  branches  and  the  woodbine.  Among  them 
grew  one  with  white  bells,  like  a  lily,  solitary  in 
the  midst  of  the  azure  throng.  A  "  drive,"  or 
green  lane  passing  between  the  ash  stoles,  went 
into  the  copse,  with  tufts  of  tussocky  grass  on 
either  side  and  rush  bunches,  till  further  away  the 
overhanging  branches,  where  the  poles  were  uncut, 
hid  its  course. 

Already  the  grass  has  hidden  the  ruts  left  by  the 
timber  carriages  —  the  last  came  by  on  May-day 
with  ribbons  of  orange,  red,  and  blue  on  the 
horses'  heads  for  honour  of  the  day.  Another, 
which  went  past  in  the  wintry  weeks  of  the  early 
year,  was  drawn  by  a  team  wearing  the  ancient 
harness  with  bells  under  high  hoods,  or  belfries, 
bells  well  attuned,  too,  and  not  far  inferior  to  those 
rung  by  handbell  men.  The  beat  of  the  three 
horses'  hoofs  sounds  like  the  drum  that  marks  time 
to  the  chime  upon  their  backs.  Seldom,  even  in 
the  far  away  country,  can  that  pleasant  chime  be 
heard. 

But  now  the  timber  is  all  gone,  the  ruts  are 
hidden,  and  the  tall  spruce  firs,  whose  graceful 
branches  were  then  almost  yellow  with  young 
—  23  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

needles  on  the  tip,  are  now  clothed  in  fresh  green. 
On  the  bank  there  is  a  flower  which  is  often 
gathered  for  the  forget-me-not,  and  is  not  unlike 
it  at  the  first  glance ;  but  if  the  two  be  placed  side 
by  side,  this,  the  scorpion  grass,  is  but  a  pale 
imitation  of  the  true  plant ;  its  petals  vary  in 
colour  and  are  often  dull,  and  it  has  not  the  yellow 
central  spot.  Yet  it  is  not  unfrequently  sold  in 
pots  in  the  shops  as  forget-me-not.  It  flowers  on 
the  bank,  high  above  the  water  of  the  ditch. 

The  true  forget-me-not  can  hardly  be  seen  in 
passing,  so  much  does  it  nestle  under  flags  and 
behind  sedges,  and  it  is  not  easy  to  gather  because 
it  flowers  on  the  very  verge  of  the  running  stream. 
The  shore  is  bordered  with  matted  vegetation, 
aquatic  grass,  and  flags  and  weeds,  and  outside 
these,  where  its  leaves  are  washed  and  purified  by 
the  clear  stream,  its  blue  petals  open.  Be  cautious, 
therefore,  in  reaching  for  the  forget-me-not,  lest 
the  bank  be  treacherous. 

It  was  near  this  copse  that  in  early  spring  I 
stayed  to  gather  some  white  sweet  violets,  for  the 
true  wild  violet  is  very  nearly  white.  I  stood  close 
to  a  hedger  and  ditcher,  who,  standing  on  a  board, 
was  cleaning  out  the  mud  that  the  water  might  run 
freely.  He  went  on  with  his  work,  taking  not  the 
least  notice  of  an  idler,  but  intent  upon  his  labour, 
as  a  good  and  true  man  should  be.  But  when  I 
—  24  — 


FOOTPATHS 

spoke  to  him  he  answered  me  in  clear,  well-chosen 
language,  well  pronounced,  "  in  good  set  terms." 

No  slurring  of  consonants  and  broadening  of 
vowels,  no  involved  and  backward  construction  de- 
pending on  the  listener's  previous  knowledge  for 
comprehension,  no  half  sentences  indicating  rather 
than  explaining,  but  correct  sentences.  With  his 
shoes  almost  covered  by  the  muddy  water,  his 
hands  black  and  grimy,  his  brown  face  splashed 
with  mud,  leaning  on  his  shovel,  he  stood  and  talked 
from  the  deep  ditch,  not  much  more  than  head  and 
shoulders  visible  above  it.  It  seemed  a  voice  from 
the  very  earth,  speaking  of  education,  change,  and 
possibilities. 

The  copse  is  now  filling  up  with  undergrowth ; 
the  brambles  are  spreading,  the  briars  extending, 
masses  of  nettles,  and  thistles  like  saplings  in  size 
and  height,  crowding  the  spaces  between  the  ash 
stoles.  By  the  banks  great  cow-parsnips,  or  "  gix," 
have  opened  their  broad  heads  of  white  flowers  ; 
teazles  have  lifted  themselves  into  view,  every 
opening  is  occupied.  There  is  a  scent  of  elder 
flowers,  the  meadow-sweet  is  pushing  up  and  will 
soon  be  out,  and  an  odour  of  new-mown  hay  floats 
on  the  breeze. 

From  the  oak  green  caterpillars  slide  down 
threads  of  their  own  making  to  the  bushes  below, 
but  they  are  running  terrible  risk.  For  a  pair  of 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

whitethroats  or  "  nettle-creepers  "  are  on  the 
watch,  and  seize  the  green  creeping  things  cross- 
ways  in  their  beaks.  Then  they  perch  on  a  branch 
three  or  four  yards  only  from  where  I  stand,  silent 
and  motionless,  and  glance  first  at  me  and  next  at 
a  bush  of  bramble  which  projects  out  to  the  edge 
of  the  footpath.  So  long  as  my  eyes  are  turned 
aside,  or  half  closed,  the  bird  perches  on  the  branch, 
gaining  confidence  every  moment.  The  instant  I 
open  my  eyes,  or  move  them,  or  glance  towards 
him,  without  either  movement  of  head,  hand,  or 
foot,  he  is  ofF  to  the  oak. 

His  tiny  eyes  are  intent  on  mine ;  the  moment 
he  catches  my  glance  he  retires.  But  in  half  a 
minute  affection  brings  him  back,  still  with  the 
caterpillar  in  his  beak,  to  the  same  branch.  Whilst 
I  have  patience  to  look  the  other  way  there  he 
stays,  but  again  a  glance  sends  him  away.  This 
is  repeated  four  or  five  times,  till,  finally,  convinced 
that  I  mean  no  harm,  and  yet  timorous  and  fearful 
of  betrayal  even  in  the  act,  he  dives  down  into  the 
bramble  bush. 

After  a  brief  interval  he  reappears  on  the  other 
side  of  it,  having  travelled  through  and  left  his 
prey  with  his  brood  in  the  nest  there.  Assured  by 
his  success,  his  mate  follows  now,  and  once  having 
done  it,  they  continue  to  bring  caterpillars,  appar- 
ently as  fast  as  they  can  pass  between  the  trees  and 
—  26  — 


FOOTPATHS 


the  bush.  They  always  enter  the  bush,  which  is 
scarcely  two  yards  from  me,  on  one  side,  pass 
through  in  the  same  direction,  and  emerge  on  the 
other  side,  having  thus  regular  places  of  entrance 
and  exit. 

As  I  stand  watching  these  birds,  a  flock  of  rooks 
goes  over,  they  have  left  the  nesting  trees,  and  fly 
together  again.  Perhaps  this  custom  of  nesting 
together  in  adjacent  trees  and  using  the  same  one 
year  after  year  is  not  so  free  from  cares  and  jeal- 
ousies as  the  solitary  plan  of  the  little  whitethroats 
here.  Last  March  I  was  standing  near  a  rookery, 
noting  the  contention  and  quarrelling,  the  down- 
right tyranny,  and  brigandage  which  is  carried  on 
there.  The  very  sound  of  the  cawing,  sharp  and 
angry,  conveys  the  impression  of  hate  and  envy. 

Two  rooks  in  succession  flew  to  a  nest  the 
owners  of  which  were  absent,  and  deliberately 
picked  a  great  part  of  it  to  pieces,  taking  the  twigs 
for  their  own  use.  Unless  the  rook,  therefore,  be 
ever  in  his  castle,  his  labour  is  torn  down,  and,  as 
with  men  in  the  fierce  struggle  for  wealth,  the 
meanest  advantages  are  seized  on.  So  strong  is 
the  rook's  bill  that  he  tears  living  twigs  of  some 
size  with  it  from  the  bough.  The  whitethroats 
were  without  such  envy  and  contention. 

From  hence  the  footpath,  leaving  the  copse, 
descends  into  a  hollow,  with  a  streamlet  flowing 
—  27  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

through  a  little  meadow,  barely  an  acre,  with  a 
pollard  oak  in  the  centre,  the  rising  ground  on  two 
sides  shutting  out  all  but  the  sky,  and  on  the  third 
another  wood.  Such  a  dreamy  hollow  might  be 
painted  for  a  glade  in  the  Forest  of  Arden,  and 
there  on  the  sward  and  leaning  against  the  ancient 
oak  one  might  read  the  play  through  without  being 
disturbed  by  a  single  passer-by.  A  few  steps 
further  and  the  stile  opens  on  a  road. 

There  the  teams  travel  with  rows  of  brazen 
spangles  down  their  necks,  some  with  a  wheat-sheaf 
for  design,  some  with  a  swan.  The  road  itself,  if 
you  follow  it,  dips  into  a  valley  where  the  horses 
must  splash  through  the  water  of  a  brook  spread 
out  some  fifteen  or  twenty  yards  wide ;  for,  after 
the  primitive  Surrey  fashion,  there  is  no  bridge  for 
waggons.  A  narrow  wooden  structure  bears  foot- 
passengers  ;  you  cannot  but  linger  half  across  and 
look  down  into  its  clear  stream.  Up  the  current 
where  it  issues  from  the  fields  and  falls  over  a  slight 
obstacle  the  sunlight  plays  and  glances. 

A  great  hawthorn  bush  grows  on  the  bank  :  in 
spring,  white  with  may ;  in  autumn,  red  with 
haws  or  peggles.  To  the  shallow  shore  of  the 
brook,  where  it  washes  the  flints  and  moistens  the 
dust,  the  house-martins  come  for  mortar.  A  con- 
stant succession  of  birds  arrive  all  day  long  to 
drink  at  the  clear  stream,  often  alighting  on  the 
—  28  — 


FOOTPATHS 

fragments  of  chalk  and  flint  which  stand  in  the 
water,  and  are  to  them  as  rocks. 

Another  footpath  leads  from  the  road  across 
the  meadows  to  where  the  brook  is  spanned  by  the 
strangest  bridge,  built  of  brick,  with  one  arch,  but 
only  just  wide  enough  for  a  single  person  to  walk, 
and  with  parapets  only  four  or  five  inches  high. 
It  is  thrown  aslant  the  stream,  and  not  straight 
across  it,  and  has  a  long  brick  approach.  It  is  not 
unlike  —  on  a  small  scale  —  the  bridges  seen  in 
views  of  Eastern  travel.  Another  path  leads  to  a 
hamlet,  consisting  of  a  church,  a  farmhouse,  and 
three  or  four  cottages  —  a  veritable  hamlet  in  every 
sense  of  the  word. 

In  a  village  a  few  miles  distant,  as  you  walk 
between  cherry  and  pear  orchards,  you  pass  a  little 
shop  —  the  sweets  and  twine  and  trifles  are  such 
as  may  be  seen  in  similar  windows  a  hundred  miles 
distant.  There  is  the  very  wooden  measure  for 
nuts,  which  has  been  used  time  out  of  mind,  in  the 
distant  country.  Out  again  into  the  road  as  the 
sun  sinks,  and  westwards  the  wind  lifts  a  cloud  of 
dust,  which  is  lit  up  and  made  rosy  by  the  rays 
passing  through  it.  For  such  is  the  beauty  of  the 
sunlight  that  it  can  impart  a  glory  even  to  dust. 

Once  more,  never  go  by  a  stile  (that  does  not 
look  private)  without  getting  over  it  and  following 
the  path.  But  they  all  end  in  one  place.  After 
—  29  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

rambling  across  furze  and  heath,  or  through  dark 
fir  woods ;  after  lingering  in  the  meadows  among 
the  buttercups,  or  by  the  copses  where  the  pheas- 
ants crow  ;  after  gathering  June  roses,  or,  in  later 
days,  staining  the  lips  with  blackberries  or  cracking 
nuts,  by-and-by  the  path  brings  you  in  sight  of  a 
railway  station.  And  the  railway  station,  through 
some  process  of  mind,  presently  compels  you  to  go 
up  on  the  platform,  and  after  a  little  puffing  and 
revolution  of  wheels  you  emerge  at  Charing-cross, 
or  London  Bridge,  or  Waterloo,  or  Ludgate-hill, 
and,  with  the  freshness  of  the  meadows  still  cling- 
ing to  your  coat,  mingle  with  the  crowd. 

The  inevitable  end  of  every  footpath  round 
about  London  is  London.  All  paths  go  thither. 

If  it  were  far  away  in  the  distant  country,  you 
might  sit  down  in  the  shadow  upon  the  hay  and 
fall  asleep,  or  dream  awake  hour  after  hour. 
There  would  be  no  inclination  to  move.  But  if 
you  sat  down  on  the  sward  under  the  ancient 
pollard  oak  in  the  little  mead  with  the  brook,  and 
the  wood  of  which  I  spoke  just  now  as  like  a  glade 
in  the  enchanted  Forest  of  Arden,  this  would  not 
be  possible.  It  is  the  proximity  of  the  immense 
City  which  induces  a  mental,  a  nerve,  restlessness. 
As  you  sit  and  would  dream,  a  something  plucks 
at  the  mind  with  constant  reminder;  you  cannot 
dream  for  long,  you  must  up  and  away,  and,  turn 


FOOTPATHS 


in  which  direction  you  please,  ultimately  it  will 
lead  you  to  London. 

There  is  a  fascination  in  it ;  there  is  a  magnetism 
stronger  than  that  of  the  rock  which  drew  the 
nails  from  Sindbad's  ship.  You  are  like  a  bird  let 
out  with  a  string  tied  to  the  foot  to  flutter  a  little 
way  and  return  again.  It  is  not  business,  for  you 
may  have  none,  in  the  ordinary  sense  ;  it  is  not 
"  society,"  it  is  not  pleasure.  It  is  the  presence 
of  man  in  his  myriads.  There  is  something  in  the 
heart  which  cannot  be  satisfied  away  from  it. 

It  is  a  curious  thing  that  your  next-door  neigh- 
bour may  be  a  stranger,  but  there  are  no  strangers 
in  a  vast  crowd.  They  all  seem  to  have  some 
relationship,  or  rather,  perhaps,  they  do  not  rouse 
the  sense  of  reserve  which  a  single  unknown  per- 
son might.  Still,  the  impulse  is  not  to  be  analysed ; 
these  are  mere  notes  acknowledging  its  power. 
The  hills  and  vales  and  meads  and  woods  are  like 
the  ocean  upon  which  Sindbad  sailed  ;  but  coming 
too  near  the  loadstone  of  London,  the  ship  wends 
thither,  whether  or  no. 

At  least  it  is  so  with  me,  and  I  often  go  to 
London  without  any  object  whatever,  but  just  be- 
cause I  must,  and,  arriving  there,  wander  whither- 
soever the  hurrying  throng  carries  me. 


FLOCKS   OF    BIRDS 


AERTAIN  road  leading  outwards  from 
a  suburb  enters  at  once  among  fields. 
It  soon  passes  a  thick  hedge  dividing 
a  meadow  from  a  cornfield,  in  which 
hedge    is  a   spot    where    some    bluebells    may   be 
found  in  spring.     Wild  flowers  are  best  seen  when 
in   masses,  a    few  scattered    along  a  bank    much 
concealed   by   grass  and    foliage   are  lost,  except, 
indeed,  upon  those  who  love  them  for  their  own 
sake. 

This  meadow  in  June,  for  instance,  when  the 
buttercups  are  high,  is  one  broad  expanse  of  bur- 
nished gold.  The  most  careless  passer-by  can 
hardly  fail  to  cast  a  glance  over  acres  of  rich 
yellow.  The  furze,  again,  especially  after  a 
shower  has  refreshed  its  tint,  must  be  seen  by  all. 
Where  broom  grows  thickly,  lifting  its  colour  well 
into  view,  or  where  the  bird's-foot  lotus  in  full 
summer  overruns  the  thin  grass  of  some  upland 
pasture,  the  eye  cannot  choose  but  acknowledge  it. 
So,  too,  with  charlock,  and  with  hillsides  purple 
with  heath,  or  where  the  woodlands  are  azure  wjth 
—  31  — 


FLOCKS    OF    BIRDS 

bluebells  for  a  hundred  yards  together.  Learning 
from  this,  those  who  would  transplant  wild  flowers 
to  their  garden  should  arrange  to  have  as  many  as 
possible  of  the  same  species  close  together. 

The  bluebells  in  this  hedge  are  unseen,  except 
by  the  rabbits.  The  latter  have  a  large  burrow, 
and  until  the  grass  is  too  tall,  or  after  it  is  cut  or 
grazed,  can  be  watched  from  the  highway.  In 
this  hedge  the  first  nightingale  of  the  year  sings, 
beginning  some  two  or  three  days  before  the  bird 
which  comes  to  the  bushes  in  the  gorse,  which 
will  presently  be  mentioned. 

It  is,  or  rather  was,  a  favourite  meadow  with 
the  partridges  ;  one  summer  there  was,  I  think, 
a  nest  in  or  near  it,  for  I  saw  the  birds  there  daily. 
But  the  next  year  they  were  absent.  One  after- 
noon a  brace  of  partridges  came  over  the  hedge 
within  a  few  inches  of  my  head  ;  they  had  been 
flushed  and  frightened  at  some  distance,  and  came 
with  the  wind  at  a  tremendous  pace.  It  is  a  habit 
with  partridges  to  fly  low,  but  just  skimming  the 
tops  of  the  hedges,  and  certainly,  had  they  been 
three  inches  lower,  they  must  have  taken  my  hat 
off.  The  knowledge  that  partridges  were  often 
about  there  made  me  always  glance  into  this  field 
on  passing  it,  long  after  the  nesting-season  was 
over. 

In  October,  as  I  looked  as  usual,  a  hawk  flew 
3  —33  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

between  the  elms,  and  out  into  the  centre  of  the 
meadow,  with  a  large  object  in  his  talons.  He 
alighted  in  the  middle,  so  as  to  be  as  far  as  possible 
from  either  hedge,  and  no  doubt  prepared  to  enjoy 
his  quarry,  when  something  startled  him,  and  he 
rose  again.  Then,  as  I  got  a  better  view,  I  saw  it 
was  a  rat  he  was  carrying.  The  long  body  of  the 
animal  was  distinctly  visible,  and  the  tail  depend- 
ing, the  hawk  had  it  by  the  shoulders  or  head. 
Flying  without  the  least  apparent  effort,  the  bird 
cleared  the  elms,  and  I  lost  sight  of  him  beyond 
them.  Now,  the  kestrel  is  but  a  small  bird,  and 
taking  into  consideration  the  size  of  the  bird  and 
the  weight  of  a  rat,  it  seems  as  great  a  feat  in 
proportion  as  for  an  eagle  to  snatch  up  a  lamb. 

Some  distance  up  the  road,  and  in  the  corner  of 
an  arable  field,  there  was  a  wheat-rick  which  was 
threshed  and  most  of  the  straw  carted  away.  But 
there  still  remained  the  litter,  and  among  it  prob- 
ably a  quantity  of  stray  corn.  There  was  always 
a  flock  of  sparrows  on  this  litter  —  a  flock  that 
might  often  be  counted  by  the  hundred.  As  I  came 
near  the  spot  one  day  a  sparrow-hawk,  whose 
approach  I  had  not  observed  and  which  had  there- 
fore been  flying  low,  suddenly  came  over  the  hedge 
just  by  the  loose  straw. 

With  shrill  cries  the  sparrows  instantly  rushed 
for  the  hedge,  not  two  yards  distant ;  but  the  hawk, 
—  34  — 


FLOCKS    OF    BIRDS 

dashing  through  the  crowd  of  them  as  they  rose, 
carried  away  a  victim.  It  was  done  in  the  tenth 
of  a  second.  He  came,  singled  his  bird,  and  was 
gone  like  the  wind,  before  the  whirr  of  wings  had 
ceased  on  the  hawthorn  where  the  flock  cowered. 

Another  time,  but  in  a  different  direction,  I  saw 
a  hawk  descend  and  either  enter  or  appear  to  enter 
a  short  much-cropped  hedge,  but  twenty  yards  dis- 
tant. I  ran  to  the  spot ;  the  hawk  of  course  made 
off,  but  there  was  nothing  in  the  bush  save  a  hedge 
sparrow,  which  had  probably  attracted  him,  but 
which  he  had  not  succeeded  in  getting. 

Kestrels  are  almost  common ;  I  have  constantly 
seen  them  while  strolling  along  the  road,  generally 
two  together,  and  once  three.  In  the  latter  part 
of  the  summer  and  autumn  they  seem  to  be  most 
numerous,  hovering  over  the  recently  reaped  fields. 
Certainly  there  is  no  scarcity  of  hawks  here.  Upon 
one  occasion,  on  Surbiton-hill,  I  saw  a  large  bird 
of  the  same  kind,  but  not  sufficiently  near  to  iden- 
tify. From  the  gliding  flight,  the  long  forked  tail, 
and  large  size  I  supposed  it  to  be  a  kite.  The 
same  bird  was  going  about  next  day,  but  still 
further  off.  I  cannot  say  that  it  was  a  kite,  for 
unless  it  is  a  usual  haunt,  it  is  not  in  my  opinion 
wise  to  positively  identify  a  bird  seen  for  so  short 
a  time. 

The  thick  hedge  mentioned  is  a  favourite  resort 
—  35  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     2g~3£ 

of  blackbirds,  and  on  a  warm  May  morning,  after 
a  shower  —  they  are  extremely  fond  of  a  shower 
—  half  a  dozen  may  be  heard  at  once  whistling  in 
the  elms.  They  use  the  elms  here  because  there 
are  not  many  oaks ;  the  oak  is  the  blackbird's 
favourite  song-tree.  There  was  one  one  day 
whistling  with  all  his  might  on  the  lower  branch 
of  an  elm,  at  the  very  roadside,  and  just  above 
him  a  wood-pigeon  was  perched.  A  pair  of  turtle- 
doves built  in  the  same  hedge  one  spring,  and  while 
resting  on  the  gate  by  the  roadside  their  "  coo-coo  " 
mingled  with  the  song  of  the  nightingale  and 
thrush,  the  blackbird's  whistle,  the  chiff-chaff's 
"  chip-chip,"  the  willow-wren's  pleading  voice,  and 
the  rustle  of  green  corn  as  the  wind  came  rushing 
(as  it  always  does  to  a  gateway). 

Goldfinches  come  by  occasionally,  not  often,  but 
still  they  do  come.  The  rarest  bird  seems  to  be 
the  bullfinch.  I  have  only  seen  bullfinches  three 
or  four  times  in  three  seasons,  and  then  only  a  pair. 
Now,  this  is  worthy  a  note,  as  illustrating  what  I 
have  often  ventured  to  say  about  the  habitat  of 
birds  being  so  often  local,  for  if  judged  by  observa- 
tion here  the  bullfinch  would  be  said  to  be  a  scarce 
bird  by  London.  But  it  has  been  stated  upon  the 
best  authority  that  only  a  few  miles  distant,  and 
still  nearer  town,  they  are  common. 

The  road  now  becomes  bordered  by  elms  on 
-36- 


FLOCKS    OF    BIRDS 

either  side,  forming  an  irregular  avenue.  Almost 
every  elm  in  spring  has  its  chaffinch  loudly  chal- 
lenging. The  birdcatchers  are  aware  that  it  is  a 
frequented  resort,  and  on  Sunday  mornings  four  or 
five  of  them  used  to  be  seen  in  the  course  of  a 
mile,  each  with  a  call  bird  in  a  partly  darkened 
cage,  a  stuffed  dummy,  and  limed  twigs.  In  the 
cornfields  on  either  hand  wood-pigeons  are  numer- 
ous in  spring  and  autumn.  Up  to  April  they  come 
in  flocks,  feeding  on  the  newly  sown  grain  when 
they  can  get  at  it,  and  varying  it  with  ivy  berries, 
from  the  ivy  growing  up  the  elms.  By  degrees  the 
flocks  break  up  as  the  nesting  begins  in  earnest. 

Some  pair  and  build  much  earlier  than  others ; 
in  fact,  the  first  egg  recorded  is  very  little  to  be 
depended  on  as  an  indication.  Particular  pairs  (of 
many  kinds  of  birds)  may  have  nests,  and  yet 
the  species  as  a  species  may  be  still  flying  in  large 
packs.  The  flocks  which  settle  in  these  fields 
number  from  one  to  two  hundred.  Rooks,  wood- 
pigeons,  and  tame  white  pigeons  often  feed  amicably 
mixed  up  together ;  the  white  tame  birds  are  con- 
spicuous at  a  long  distance  before  the  crops  have 
risen,  or  after  the  stubble  is  ploughed. 

I  should  think  that  the  corn  farmers  of  Surrey 
lose  more  grain  from  the  birds  than  the  agricul- 
turists whose  tenancies  are  a  hundred  miles  from 
London.  In  the  comparatively  wild  or  open  dis- 
—  37  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

tricts  to  which  I  had  been  accustomed  before  I 
made  these  observations  I  cannot  recollect  ever 
seeing  such  vast  numbers  of  birds.  There  were 
places,  of  course,  where  they  were  numerous,  and 
there  were  several  kinds  more  represented  than  is 
the  case  here,  and  some  that  are  scarcely  repre- 
sented at  all.  I  have  seen  flocks  of  wood-pigeons 
immensely  larger  than  any  here;  but  then  it  was 
only  occasionally.  They  came,  passed  over,  and 
were  gone.  Here  the  flocks,  though  not  very 
numerous,  seem  always  to  be  about. 

Sparrows  crowd  every  hedge  and  field,  their 
numbers  are  incredible  ;  chaffinches  are  not  to  be 
counted  ;  of  greenfinches  there  must  be  thousands. 
From  the  railway  even  you  can  see  them.  I 
caught  glimpses  of  a  ploughed  field  recently  sown 
one  spring  from  the  window  of  a  railway  carriage, 
every  little  clod  of  which  seemed  alive  with  small 
birds,  principally  sparrows,  chaffinches,  and  green- 
finches. There  must  have  been  thousands  in  that 
field  alone.  In  autumn  the  numbers  are  even 
greater,  or  rather  more  apparent. 

One  autumn  some  correspondence  appeared  la- 
menting the  scarcity  of  small  birds  (and  again  in 
the  spring  the  same  cry  was  raised)  ;  people  said 
that  they  had  walked  along  the  roads  or  footpaths 
and  there  were  none  in  the  hedges.  They  were 
quite  correct  —  the  birds  were  not  in  the  hedges, 
-38- 


FLOCKS    OF    BIRDS 

they  were  in  the  corn  and  stubble.  After  the  nest- 
ing is  well  over  and  the  wheat  is  ripe,  the  birds 
leave  the  hedges  and  go  out  into  the  wheatfields  ; 
at  the  same  time  the  sparrows  quit  the  house-tops 
and  gardens  and  do  the  same.  At  the  very  time 
this  complaint  was  raised,  the  stubbles  in  Surrey, 
as  I  can  vouch,  were  crowded  with  small  birds. 

If  you  wallced  across  the  stubble,  flocks  of  hun- 
dreds rose  out  of  your  way ;  if  you  leant  on  a  gate 
and  watched  a  few  minutes,  you  could  see  small 
flocks  in  every  quarter  of  the  field  rising  and  set- 
tling again.  These  movements  indicated  a  larger 
number  in  the  stubble  there,  for  where  a  great 
flock  is  feeding  some  few  every  now  and  then  fly 
up  restlessly.  Earlier  than  that  in  the  summer 
there  was  not  a  wheatfield  where  you  could  not 
find  numerous  wheatears  picked  as  clean  as  if 
threshed  where  they  stood.  In  some  places  the 
wheat  was  quite  thinned. 

Later  in  the  year  there  seems  a  movement  of 
small  birds  from  the  lower  to  the  higher  lands. 
One  December  day  I  remember  particularly  visit- 
ing the  neighbourhood  of  Ewell,  where  the  lands 
begin  to  rise  up  towards  the  Downs.  Certainly,  I 
have  seldom  seen  such  vast  numbers  of  small  birds. 
Up  from  the  stubble  flew  sparrows,  chaffinches, 
greenfinches,  yellowhammers,  in  such  flocks  that 
the  low-cropped  hedge  was  covered  with  them.  A 
—  39  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

second  correspondence  appeared  in  the  spring  upon 
the  same  subject,  and  again  the  scarcity  of  small 
birds  was  deplored. 

So  far  as  the  neighbourhood  of  London  was  con- 
cerned, this  was  the  exact  reverse  of  the  truth. 

Small  birds  swarmed,  as  I  have  already  stated,  in 
every  ploughed  field.  All  the  birdcatchers  in  Lon- 
don with  traps  and  nets  and  limed  twigs  could 
never  make  the  slightest  appreciable  difference  to 
such  flocks.  I  have  always  expressed  my  detesta- 
tion of  the  birdcatcher ;  but  it  is  founded  on  other 
grounds,  and  not  from  any  fear  of  the  diminution 
of  numbers  only.  \Vhere  the  birdcatcher  does  in- 
flict irretrievable  injury  is  in  this  way  —  a  bird, 
say  a  nightingale,  say  a  goldfinch,  has  had  a  nest 
for  years  in  the  corner  of  a  garden,  or  an  apple- 
tree  in  an  orchard.  The  birdcatcher  presently 
decoys  one  or  other  of  these,  and  thenceforward 
the  spot  is  deserted.  The  song  is  heard  no  more ; 
the  nest  never  again  rebuilt. 

The  first  spring  I  resided  in  Surrey  I  was  fairly 
astonished  and  delighted  at  the  bird  life  which  pro- 
claimed itself  everywhere.  The  bevies  of  chiff- 
chafFs  and  willow-wrens  which  came  to  the  thickets 
in  the  furze,  the  chorus  of  thrushes  and  blackbirds, 
the  chaffinches  in  the  elms,  the  greenfinches  in 
the  hedges,  wood-pigeons  and  turtledoves  m  the 
copses,  tree  pipits  about  the  oaks  in  the  cornfields ; 
—  40  — 


FLOCKS    OF    BIRDS 

every  bush,  every  tree,  almost  every  clod,  for  the 
larks  were  so  many,  seemed  to  have  its  songster. 
As  for  nightingales,  I  never  knew  so  many  in  the 
most  secluded  country. 

There  are  more  round  about  London  than  in  all 
the  woodlands  I  used  to  ramble  through.  When 
people  go  into  the  country  they  really  leave  the 
birds  behind  them.  It  was  the  same,  I  found, 
after  longer  observation,  with  birds  perhaps  less 
widely  known  as  with  those  universally  recognised 

—  such,    for   instance,   as    shrikes.      The    winter 
when  the  cry  was  raised  that  there  were  no  birds, 
that  the  blackbirds  and  thrushes  had  left  the  lawns 
and  must  be  dead,  and  how  wicked  it  would  be  to 
take  a  nest  next  year,  I  had  not  the  least  difficulty 
in  finding  plenty  of  them. 

They  had  simply  gone  to  the  water  meadows, 
the  brooks,  and  moist  places  generally.  Every  lo- 
cality where  running  water  kept  the  ground  moist 
and  permitted  of  movement  among  the  creeping 
things  which  form  these  birds'  food,  was  naturally 
resorted  to.  Thrushes  and  blackbirds,  although 
they  do  not  pack  —  that  is,  regularly  fly  in  flocks 

—  undoubtedly  migrate  when  pressed  by  weather. 
They   are   well   known   to   arrive    on   the  east 

coast  from  Norway  in  numbers  as  the  cold  increases. 

I  see  no  reason  why  we  may  not  suppose  that  in 

very  severe  and  continued  frost  the  thrushes  and 

—  41  — 


2S>^3*     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

blackbirds  round  London  fly  westwards  towards 
the  milder  side  of  the  island.  It  seems  to  me  that 
when,  some  years  since,  I  used  to  stroll  round  the 
water  meadows  in  a  western  county  for  snipes  in 
frosty  weather,  the  hedges  were  full  of  thrushes 
and  blackbirds  —  quite  full  of  them. 

Now,  though  there  were  thrushes  and  blackbirds 
about  the  brooks  by  London  last  winter,  there  were 
few  in  the  hedges  generally.  Had  they,  then, 
flown  westwards  ?  It  is  my  belief  that  they  had. 
They  had  left  the  hard-bound  ground  about  Lon- 
don for  the  softer  and  moister  lands  farther  west. 
They  had  crossed  the  rain-line.  When  frost  pre- 
vents access  to  food  in  the  east,  thrushes  and  black- 
birds move  westwards,  just  as  the  fieldfares  and 
redwings  do. 

That  the  fieldfares  and  redwings  do  so  I  can  say 
with  confidence,  because,  as  they  move  in  large 
flocks,  there  is  no  difficulty  in  tracing  the  direction 
in  which  they  are  going.  They  all  went  west 
when  the  severe  weather  began.  On  the  southern 
side  of  London,  at  least  in  the  districts  I  am  best 
acquainted  with,  there  was  hardly  a  fieldfare  or 
redwing  to  be  seen  for  weeks  and  even  months. 
Towards  spring  they  came  back,  flying  east  for 
Norway.  As  thrushes  and  blackbirds  move  singly 
and  not  with  concerted  action,  their  motions  can- 
not be  determined  with  such  precision,  but  all  the 
—  42  — 


FLOCKS    OF    BIRD  S 

facts  are  in  favour  of  the  belief  that  they  also  went 
west. 

That  they  were  killed  by  the  frost  and  snow  I 
utterly  refuse  to  credit.  Some  few,  no  doubt, 
were  —  I  saw  some  greatly  enfeebled  by  starvation 
—  but  not  the  mass.  If  so  many  had  been  de- 
stroyed, their  bodies  must  have  been  seen  when 
there  was  no  foliage  to  hide  them,  and  no  insects 
to  quickly  play  the  scavenger  as  in  summer.  Some 
were  killed  by  cats ;  a  few  perhaps  by  rats,  for  in 
sharp  winters  they  go  down  into  the  ditches,  and 
I  saw  a  dead  redwing,  torn  and  disfigured,  at  the 
mouth  of  a  drain  during  the  snow,  where  it  might 
have  been  fastened  on  by  a  rat.  But  it  is  quite 
improbable  that  thousands  died  as  was  supposed. 

Thrushes  and  blackbirds  are  not  like  rooks. 
Rooks  are  so  bound  by  tradition  and  habit  that 
they  very  rarely  quit  the  locality  where  they  were 
reared.  Their  whole  lives  are  spent  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood of  the  nest  trees  and  the  woods  where 
they  sleep.  They  may  travel  miles  during  the 
day,  but  they  always  come  back  to  roost.  These 
are  the  birds  that  suffer  the  most  during  long  frosts 
and  snows.  Unable  to  break  the  chain  that  binds 
them  to  one  spot,  they  die  rather  than  desert  it. 
A  miserable  time,  indeed,  they  had  of  it  that  winter, 
but  I  never  heard  that  any  one  proposed  feeding  the 
rooks,  the  very  birds  that  wanted  it  most. 
—  43  — 


Sf-JSK     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

Swallows,  again,  were  declared  by  many  to  be 
fewer.  It  is  not  at  all  unlikely  that  they  were 
fewer.  The  wet  season  was  unfavourable  to  them; 
still  a  good  deal  of  the  supposed  absence  of  swal- 
lows may  be  through  the  observer  not  looking  for 
them  in  the  right  place.  If  not  wheeling  in  the 
sky,  look  for  them  over  the  water,  the  river,  or 
great  ponds;  if  not  there,  look  along  the  moist 
fields  or  shady  woodland  meadows.  They  vary 
their  haunts  with  the  state  of  the  atmosphere, 
which  causes  insects  to  be  more  numerous  in  one 
place  at  one  time,  and  presently  in  another. 

A  very  wet  season  is  more  fatal  than  the  sharp- 
est frost ;  it  acts  by  practically  reducing  the  births, 
leaving  the  ordinary  death-rate  to  continue.  Con- 
sequently, as  the  old  birds  die,  there  are  none  (or 
fewer)  to  supply  their  places.  Once  more  let  me 
express  the  opinion  that  there  are  as  many  small 
birds  round  London  as  in  the  country,  and  no 
measure  is  needed  to  protect  the  species  at  large. 
Protection,  if  needed,  is  required  for  the  individual. 
Sweep  the  roads  and  lanes  clear  of  the  birdcatchers, 
but  do  not  prevent  a  boy  from  taking  a  nest  in  the 
open  fields  or  commons.  If  it  were  made  illegal 
to  sell  full-grown  birds,  half  the  evil  would  be 
stopped  at  once  if  the  law  were  enforced.  The 
question  is  full  of  difficulties.  To  prevent  or 
attempt  to  prevent  the  owner  of  a  garden  from 


FLOCKS    OF    BIRDS  2£^3Z 

shooting  the  bullfinches  or  blackbirds  and  so  on, 
that  steal  his  fruit,  or  destroy  his  buds,  is  absurd. 
It  is  equally  absurd  to  fine  —  what  twaddle  !  —  a 
lad  for  taking  a  bird's  egg.  The  only  point  upon 
which  I  am  fully  clear  is  that  the  birdcatcher  who 
takes  birds  on  land  not  his  own  or  in  his  occupa- 
tion, on  public  property,  as  roads,  wastes,  com- 
mons, and  so  forth,  ought  to  be  rigidly  put  down. 
But  as  for  the  small  birds  as  a  mass,  I  am  con- 
vinced that  they  will  never  cease  out  of  the  land. 

It  is  not  easy  to  progress  far  along  this  road, 
because  every  bird  suggests  so  many  reflections  and 
recollections.  Upon  approaching  the  rising  ground 
at  Ewell  green  plovers  or  peewits  become  plentiful 
in  the  cornfields.  In  spring  and  early  summer  the 
flocks  break  up  to  some  extent,  and  the  scattered 
parties  conduct  their  nesting  operations  in  the 
pastures  or  on  the  downs.  In  autumn  they  collect 
together  again,  and  flocks  of  fifty  or  more  are 
commonly  seen.  Now  and  then  a  much  larger 
flock  comes  down  into  the  plain,  wheeling  to  and 
fro,  and  presently  descending  upon  an  arable  field, 
where  they  cover  the  ground. 


—45  — 


NIGHTINGALE    ROAD 


^HE  wayside  is  open  to  all,  and  that 
which  it  affords  may  be  enjoyed  with- 
out fee  ;  therefore  it  is  that  I  return 
to  it  so  often.  It  is  a  fact  that  com- 
mon hedgerows  often  yield  more  of  general  inter- 
est than  the  innermost  recesses  of  carefully  guarded 
preserves,  which  by  day  are  frequently  still,  silent, 
and  denuded  of  everything,  even  of  game ;  nor 
can  flowers  flourish  in  such  thick  shade,  nor  where 
fir-needles  cover  the  ground. 

By  the  same  wayside  of  which  I  have  already 
spoken  there  is  a  birch  copse,  through  which  runs 
a  road  open  to  foot  passengers,  but  not  to  wheel 
traffic,  and  also  a  second  footpath.  From  these 
a  little  observation  will  show  that  almost  all  the 
life  and  interest  of  the  copse  is  at,  or  near,  the 
edge,  and  can  be  readily  seen  without  trespassing 
a  single  yard.  Sometimes,  when  it  is  quiet  in  the 
evening  and  the  main  highway  is  comparatively 
deserted,  a  hare  comes  stealing  down  the  track 
through  the  copse  and  after  lingering  there  awhile 
crosses  the  highway  into  the  stubble  on  the  other 
side. 

-46_ 


NIGHTINGALE    ROAD 

In  one  of  these  fields,  just  opposite  the  copse,  a 
covey  of  partridges  had  their  rendezvous,  and  I 
watched  them  from  the  road,  evening  after  even- 
ing, issue  one  by  one,  calling  as  they  appeared 
from  a  breadth  of  mangolds.  Their  sleeping-place 
seemed  to  be  about  a  hundred  yards  from  the 
wayside.  Another  arable  field  just  opposite  is 
bounded  by  the  road  with  iron  wire  or  railing, 
instead  of  a  hedge,  and  the  low  mound  in  which 
the  stakes  are  fixed  swarmed  one  summer  with 
ant-hills  full  of  eggs,  and  a  slight  rustle  in  the  corn 
as  I  approached  told  where  the  parent  bird  had 
just  led  her  chicks  from  the  feast  to  shelter. 

Passing  into  the  copse  by  the  road,  which  is 
metalled  but  weed-grown  from  lack  of  use,  the 
grasshoppers  sing  from  the  sward  at  the  sides,  but 
the  birds  are  silent  as  the  summer  ends.  Pink 
striped  bells  of  convolvulus  flower' over  the  flints 
and  gravel,  the  stones  nearly  hidden  by  their  run- 
ners and  leaves ;  yellow  toadflax  or  eggs  and 
bacon  grew  here  till  a  weeding  took  place,  since 
which  it  has  not  reappeared,  but  in  its  place  viper's 
bugloss  sprang  up,  a  plant  which  was  not  previously 
to  be  found  there.  Hawkweeds,  some  wild  vetches, 
white  yarrow,  thistles,  and  burdocks  conceal  the 
flints  yet  further,  so  that  the  track  has  the  appear- 
ance of  a  green  drive. 

The  slender  birch  and  ash  poles  are  hung  with 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

woodbine  and  wild  hops,  both  growing  in  profusion. 
A  cream-coloured  wall  of  woodbine  in  flower  ex- 
tends in  one  spot,  in  another  festoons  of  hops  hang 
gracefully,  and  so  thick  as  to  hide  everything 
beyond  them.  There  is  scarce  a  stole  without  its 
woodbine  or  hops ;  many  of  the  poles,  though  larger 
than  the  arm,  are  scored  with  spiral  grooves  left  by 
the  bines.  Under  these  bushes  of  woodbine  the 
nightingales  when  they  first  arrive  in  spring  are 
fond  of  searching  for  food,  and  dart  on  a  grub 
with  a  low  satisfied  "  kurr." 

The  place  is  so  favourite  a  resort  with  these 
birds  that  it  might  well  be  called  Nightingale 
Copse.  Four  or  five  may  be  heard  singing  at 
once  on  a  warm  May  morning,  and  at  least  two 
may  often  be  seen  as  well  as  heard  at  the  same 
time.  They  sometimes  sing  from  the  trees,  as 
well  as  from  the  bushes ;  one  was  singing  one 
morning  on  an  elm  branch  which  projected  over 
the  road,  and  under  which  the  van  drivers  jogged 
indifferently  along.  Sometimes  they  sing  from 
the  dark  foliage  of  the  Scotch  firs. 

As  the  summer  wanes  they  haunt  the  hawthorn 
hedge  by  the  roadside,  leaving  the  interior  of  the 
copse,  and  may  often  be  seen  on  the  dry  and  dusty 
sward.  When  chiff-chaff  and  willow-wren  first 
come,  they  remain  in  the  tree-tops,  but  in  the 
summer  descend  into  the  lower  bushes,  and,  like 
-48- 


NIGHTINGALE    ROAD 

the  nightingales,  come  out  upon  the  sward  by  the 
wayside.  Nightingale  Copse  is  also  a  great  fa- 
vourite with  cuckoos.  There  are  a  few  oaks  in 
it,  and  in  the  meadows  in  the  rear  many  detached 
hawthorn  bushes,  and  two  or  three  small  groups 
of  trees,  chestnuts,  lime,  and  elm.  From  the 
hawthorns  to  the  elms,  and  from  the  elms  to  the 
oaks,  the  cuckoos  continually  circulate,  calling  as 
they  fly. 

One  morning  in  May,  while  resting  on  a  rail  in 
the  copse,  I  heard  four  calling  close  by,  the  fur- 
thest not  a  hundred  yards  distant,  and  as  they 
continually  changed  their  positions  flying  round 
there  was  always  one  in  sight.  They  circled 
round  singing ;  the  instant  one  ceased  another  took 
it  up,  a  perfect  madrigal.  In  the  evening,  at  eight 
o'clock,  I  found  them  there  again  still  singing. 
The  same  detached  groups  of  trees  are  much 
frequented  by  wood-pigeons,  especially  towards 
autumn. 

Rooks  prefer  to  perch  on  the  highest  branches, 
wood-pigeons  more  in  the  body  of  the  tree,  and 
when  the  boughs  are  bare  of  leaves  a  flock  of  the 
latter  may  be  recognised  in  this  way  as  far  as  the 
eye  can  see,  and  when  the  difference  of  colour  is 
rendered  imperceptible  by  distance.  The  wood- 
pigeon  when  perched  has  a  rounded  appearance ; 
the  rook  a  longer  and  sharper  outline.  .-,, 

4  —49  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

By  one  corner  of  the  copse  there  is  an  oak, 
hollow  within,  but  still  green  and  flourishing.  The 
hollow  is  black  and  charred ;  some  mischievous 
boys  must  have  lighted  a  fire  inside  it,  just  as  the 
ploughboys  do  in  the  far-away  country.  A  little 
pond  in  the  meadow  close  by  is  so  overhung  by 
another  oak,  and  so  surrounded  with  bramble  and 
hawthorn,  that  the  water  lies  in  perpetual  shade. 
It  is  just  the  spot  where,  if  rabbits  were  about,  one 
might  be  found  sitting  out  on  the  bank  under  the 
brambles.  This  overhanging  oak  was  broken  by 
the  famous  October  snow,  1880,  further  splintered 
by  the  gales  of  the  next  year,  and  its  trunk  is  now 
split  from  top  to  bottom  as  if  with  wedges. 

These  meadows  in  spring  are  full  of  cowslips, 
and  in  one  part  the  meadow-orchis  flourishes. 
The  method  of  making  cowslip  balls  is  universally 
known  to  children,  from  the  most  remote  hamlet 
to  the  very  verge  of  London,  and  the  little  children 
who  dance  along  the  greensward  by  the  road 
here,  if  they  chance  to  touch  a  nettle,  at  once 
search  for  a  dock  leaf  to  lay  on  it  and  assuage  the 
smart.  Country  children,  and  indeed  older  folk, 
call  the  foliage  of  the  knotted  figwort  cutfinger 
leaves,  as  they  are  believed  to  assist  the  cure  of  a 
cut  or  sore. 

Raspberry  suckers  shoot  up  in  one  part  of  the 
copse;  the  fruit  is  doubtless  eaten  by  the  birds. 
—  5°  — 


NIGHTINGALE    ROAD 

Troops  of  them  come  here,  travelling  along  the 
great  hedge  by  the  wayside,  and  all  seem  to  prefer 
the  outside  trees  and  bushes  to  the  interior  of  the 
copse.  This  great  hedge  is  as  wide  as  a  country 
double  mound,  though  it  has  but  one  ditch  j  the 
thick  hawthorn,  blackthorn,  elder,  and  bramble  — 
the  oaks,  elms,  ashes,  and  firs  form,  in  fact,  almost 
a  cover  of  themselves. 

In  the  early  spring,  when  the  east  wind  rushes 
with  bitter  energy  across  the  plains,  this  immense 
hedge,  as  far  as  it  extends,  shelters  the  wayfarer, 
the  road  being  on  the  southern  side,  so  that  he  can 
enjoy  such  gleams  of  sunshine  as  appear.  In 
summer  the  place  is,  of  course  for  the  same  rea- 
son, extremely  warm,  unless  the  breeze  chances  to 
come  up  strong  from  the  west,  when  it  sweeps  over 
the  open  cornfields  fresh  and  sweet.  Stoats  and 
weasels  are  common  on  the  mound,  or  crossing 
the  road  to  the  corn  ;  they  seem  more  numerous 
in  autumn,  and  I  fear  leveret  and  partridge  are 
thinned  by  them. 

Mice  abound;  in  spring  they  are  sometimes  up 
in  the  blackthorn  bushes,  perhaps  for  the  young 
buds.  In  summer  they  may  often  be  heard  rushing 
along  the  furrows  across  the  wayside  sward,  scarce 
concealed  by  the  wiry  grass.  Flowers  are  very 
local  in  habit ;  the  spurge,  for  instance,  which  is 
common  in  a  road  parallel  to  this,  is  not  to  be 
—  51  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

seen,  and  not  very  much  cow-parsnip,  or  "gix," 
one  of  the  most  freely  growing  hedge  plants,  which 
almost  chokes  the  mounds  near  by.  Willowherbs, 
however,  fill  every  place  in  the  ditch  here  where  they 
can  find  room  between  the  bushes,  and  the  arum  is 
equally  common,  but  the  lesser  celandine  absent. 

Towards  evening,  as  the  clover  and  vetches 
closed  their  leaves  under  the  dew,  giving  the  fields 
a  different  aspect  and  another  green,  I  used  occa- 
sionally to  watch  from  here  a  pair  of  herons,  sailing 
over  in  their  calm  serene  way.  Their  flight  was 
in  the  direction  of  the  Thames,  and  they  then 
passed  evening  after  evening,  but  the  following 
summer  they  did  not  come.  One  evening,  later 
on  in  autumn,  two  birds  appeared  descending  across 
the  cornfields  towards  a  secluded  hollow  where 
there  was  water,  and,  although  at  a  considerable 
distance,  from  their  manner  of  flight  I  could  have 
no  doubt  they  were  teal. 

The  spotted  leaves  of  the  arum  appeared  in  the 
ditches  in  this  locality  very  nearly  simultaneously 
with  the  first  whistling  of  the  blackbirds  in  Febru- 
ary ;  last  spring  the  chifF-chafF  sang  soon  after  the 
flowering  of  the  lesser  celandine  (not  in  this  hedge, 
but  near  by),  and  the  first  swift  was  noticed  within 
a  day  or  two  of  the  opening  of  the  may  bloom. 
Although  not  exactly,  yet  in  a  measure,  the  move- 
ments of  plant  and  bird  life  correspond. 
—  52— 


NIGHTINGAXE    ROAD 

In  a  closely  cropped  hedge  opposite  this  great 
mound  (cropped  because  enclosing  a  cornfield) 
there  grows  a  solitary  shrub  of  the  wayfaring  tree. 
Though  well  known  elsewhere,  there  is  not,  so  far 
as  I  am  aware,  another  bush  of  it  for  miles,  and  I 
should  not  have  noticed  this  had  not  this  part  of 
the  highway  been  so  pleasant  a  place  to  stroll  to 
and  fro  in  almost  all  the  year.  The  twigs  of  the 
wayfaring  tree  are  covered  with  a  mealy  substance 
which  comes  off  on  the  fingers  when  touched.  A 
stray  shrub  or  plant  like  this  sometimes  seems  of 
more  interest  than  a  whole  group. 

For  instance,  most  of  the  cottage  gardens  have 
foxgloves  in  them,  but  I  had  not  observed  any 
wild,  till  one  afternoon  near  some  woods  I  found  a 
tall  and  beautiful  foxglove,  richer  in  colour  than 
the  garden  specimens,  and  with  bells  more  thickly 
crowded,  lifting  its  spike  of  purple  above  the  low- 
cropped  hawthorn.  In  districts  where  the  soil  is 
favourable  to  the  foxglove  it  would  not  have  been 
noticed,  but  here,  alone  and  unexpected,  it  was 
welcomed.  The  bees  in  spring  come  to  the  broad 
wayside  sward  by  the  great  mound  to  the  bright 
dandelions ;  presently  to  the  white  clover,  and 
later  to  the  heaths. 

There  are  about  sixty  wild  flowers  which  grow 
freely  along  this  road,  namely,  yellow  agrimony, 
amphibious  persicaria,arum,  avens,  bindweed,  bird's- 
—  53  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

foot  lotus,  bittersweet,  blackberry,  black  and  white 
bryony,  brooklime,  burdock,  buttercups,  wild  camo- 
mile, wild  carrot,  celandine  —  the  great  and  lesser 
—  cinquefoil,  cleavers,  corn  buttercup,  corn  mint, 
corn  sow  thistle,  and  spurrey,  cowslip,  cow-parsnip, 
wild  parsley,  daisy,  dandelion,  dead  nettle,  and 
white  dog  rose,  and  trailing  rose,  violets,  the  sweet 
and  the  scentless,  figwort,  veronica,  ground  ivy, 
willowherb,  two  sorts,  herb  Robert,  honeysuckle, 
lady's  smock,  purple  loosestrife,  mallow,  meadow 
orchis,  meadowsweet,  yarrow,  moon  daisy,  St. 
John's  wort,  pimpernel,  water  plaintain,  poppy, 
rattles,  scabious,  self-heal,  silverweed,  sow  thistle, 
stitchwort,  teazles,  tormentil,  vetches,  and  yellow 
vetch. 

To  these  may  be  added  an  occasional  bacon  and 
eggs,  a  few  harebells  (plenty  on  higher  ground), 
the  yellow  iris,  by  the  adjoining  brook,  and  flower- 
ing shrubs  and  trees,  as  dogwood,  gorse,  privet, 
blackthorn,  hawthorn,  horse-chestnut,  besides  wild 
hops,  the  horsetails  on  the  mounds,  and  such  plants 
as  grow  everywhere,  as  chickweed,  groundsel,  and 
so  forth.  A  solitary  shrub  of  mugwort  grows 
at  some  distance,  but  in  the  same  district  and  in 
one  hedgerow  the  wild  guelder  rose  flourishes. 
Anemones  and  primroses  are  not  found  along  or 
near  this  road,  nor  woodruff.  At  the  first  glance 
a  list  like  this  reads  as  if  flowers  abounded,  but  the 
—  54  — 


NIG  H  T  INGALE    ROAD         se^a? 

reverse  is  the  impression  to  those  who  frequent  the 
place. 

It  is  really  a  very  short  list,  and  as  of  course  all 
of  these  do  not  appear  at  once  there  really  is  rather 
a  scarcity  of  wild  flowers,  so  far  at  least  as  variety 
goes.  Just  in  the  spring  there  is  a  burst  of  colour, 
and  again  in  the  autumn  ;  but  for  the  rest,  if  we 
set  aside  the  roses  in  June,  there  seems  quite  an 
absence  of  flowers  during  the  summer.  The  way- 
side is  green,  the  ditches  are  green,  the  mounds 
green ;  if  you  enter  and  stroll  round  the  meadows, 
they  are  green  too,  or  white  in  places  with  umbel- 
liferous plants,  principally  parsley  and  cow-parsnip. 
But  these  become  monotonous.  Therefore,  I  am 
constrained  to  describe  it  as  a  district  somewhat 
lacking  flowers,  meaning,  of  course,  in  point  of 
variety. 

Compared  with  the  hedges  and  fields  of  Wilt- 
shire, Gloucestershire,  Berkshire,  and  similar  south- 
western localities,  it  seems  flowerless.  On  the 
other  hand,  southern  London  can  boast  stretches 
of  heath  which,  when  in  full  bloom,  rival  Scotch 
hillsides.  These  remarks  are  written  entirely  from 
a  non-scientific  point  of  view.  Professional 
botanists  may  produce  lists  of  thrice  the  length, 
and  prove  that  all  the  flowers  of  England  are  to  be 
found  near  London.  But  it  will  not  alter  the  fact 
that  to  the  ordinary  eye  the  roads  and  lanes  just 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     ^^ 


south  of  London  are  in  the  middle  of  the  summer 
comparatively  bare  of  colour.  They  should  be 
visited  in  spring  and  autumn. 

Nor  do  the  meadows  seem  to  produce  so  many 
varieties  of  grass  as  farther  to  the  south-west. 
But  beetles  of  every  kind  and  size,  from  the  great 
stag  beetle,  helplessly  floundering  through  the  even- 
ing air  and  clinging  to  your  coat,  down  to  the 
green,  bronze,  and  gilded  species  that  hasten  across 
the  path,  appear  extremely  numerous.  Warm, 
dry  sands,  light  soils,  and  furze  and  heath  are  prob- 
ably favourable  to  them. 

From  this  roadside  I  have  seldom  heard  the 
corncrake,  and  never  once  the  grasshopper  lark. 
These  two  birds  are  so  characteristic  of  the 
meadows  in  south-western  counties  that  a  summer 
evening  seems  silent  to  me  without  the  "  crake, 
crake  !  "  of  the  one  and  the  singular  sibilous  rat- 
tle of  the  other.  But  they  come  to  other  places 
not  far  distant  from  the  road,  and  one  summer  a 
grasshopper-lark  could  be  heard  in  some  mead- 
ows where  I  had  not  heard  it  the  two  preceding 
seasons.  On  the  mounds  field  crickets  cry 
persistently. 

At  the  end  of  the  hedge  which  is  near  a  brook, 

a   sedge-reedling    takes    up    his    residence    in    the 

spring.     The   sedge-reedlings    here    begin   to   call 

very  early;  the  first  date  I  have  down  is  the  i6th 

_S6- 


NIGHTINGALE    ROAD 

of  April,  which  is,  I  think,  some  weeks  before  they 
begin  in  other  localities.  In  one  ditch  beside  the 
road  (not  in  this  particular  hedge)  there  grows  a 
fine  bunch  of  reeds.  Though  watery,  on  account 
of  the  artificial  drains  from  the  arable  fields,  the 
spot  is  on  much  higher  ground  than  the  brook, 
and  it  is  a  little  singular  that  while  reeds  flourish 
in  this  place  they  are  not  to  be  found  by  the  brook. 

The  elms  of  the  neighbourhood,  wherever  they 
can  be  utilised  as  posts,  are  unmercifully  wired, 
wires  twisted  round,  holes  bored  and  the  ends  of 
wire  driven  in  or  staples  inserted,  and  the  same 
with  the  young  oaks.  Many  trees  are  much  dis- 
figured from  this  cause,  the  bark  is  worn  off  on 
many ;  and  others,  which  have  recovered,  have 
bulging  rings,  where  it  swelled  up  over  the  iron. 
The  heads  of  large  nails  and  staples  are  easily  dis- 
covered where  the  wire  has  disappeared,  sometimes 
three  or  four,  one  above  the  other,  in  the  same  tree. 
A  fine  avenue  of  elms  which  shades  part  of  a 
suburb  appears  to  be  dying  by  degrees — the  too 
common  fate  of  elms  in  such  places. 

How  many  beautiful  trees  have  thus  perished 
near  London  ?  —  witness  the  large  elms  that  once 
stood  in  Jews'  Walk,  at  Sydenham.  Barking  the 
trunks  for  sheer  wanton  mischief  is  undoubtedly 
the  cause  in  some  cases,  and  it  has  been  suggested 
that  quicksilver  has  occasionally  been  inserted  in 
—  57  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

gimlet  holes.  The  mercury  is  supposed  to  work  up 
the  channels  of  the  sap,  and  to  prevent  its  flow. 

But  may  not  the  ordinary  conditions  of  suburban 
improvement  often  account  for  the  decay  of  such 
trees  without  occult  causes  ?  Sewers  carry  away 
the  water  that  used  to  moisten  the  roots,  and  being 
at  some  depth,  they  not  only  take  the  surface 
water  of  a  storm  before  it  has  had  time  to  penetrate, 
but  drain  the  lower  stratum  completely.  Then, 
gas-pipes  frequently  leak,  so  much  so  that  the  soil 
for  yards  is  saturated  and  emits  a  smell  of  gas. 
Roots  passing  through  such  a  soil  can  scarcely  be 
healthy,  and  very  probably  in  making  excavations 
for  laying  pipes  the  roots  are  cut  through.  The 
young  trees  that  have  been  planted  in  some 
places  are,  I  notice,  often  bored  by  grubs  to  an 
extraordinary  extent,  and  will  never  make  sound 
timber. 

One  July  day,  while  walking  on  this  road,  I 
happened  to  look  over  a  gateway  and  saw  that  a 
large  and  prominent  mansion  on  the  summit  of 
some  elevated  ground  had  apparently  disappeared. 
The  day  was  very  clear  and  bright,  sunny  and  hot, 
and  there  was  no  natural  vapour.  But  on  the 
light  north-east  wind  there  came  slowly  towards 
me  a  bluish-yellow  mist,  the  edge  of  which  was 
clearly  defined,  and  which  blotted  out  distant  ob- 
jects and  blurred  those  nearer  at  hand.  The  ap- 
-58- 


NIGHTINGALE    ROAD 

pearance  of  the  open  arable  field  over  which  I  was 
looking  changed  as  it  approached. 

In  front  of  the  wall  of  mist  the  sunshine  lit  the 
field  up  brightly,  behind  the  ground  was  dull,  and 
yet  not  in  shadow.  It  came  so  slowly  that  its 
movement  could  be  easily  watched.  When  it 
went  over  me  there  was  a  perceptible  coolness  and 
a  faint  smell  of  damp  smoke,  and  immediately  the 
road,  which  had  been  white  under  the  sunshine, 
took  a  dim,  yellowish  hue.  The  sun  was  not 
shut  out  nor  even  obscured,  but  the  rays  had  to 
pass  through  a  thicker  medium.  This  haze  was 
not  thick  enough  to  be  called  fog,  nor  was  it  the 
summer  haze  that  in  the  country  adds  to  the 
beauty  of  distant  hills  and  woods. 

It  was  clearly  the  atmosphere  —  not  the  fog  — 
but  simply  the  atmosphere  of  London  brought  out 
over  the  fields  by  a  change  in  the  wind,  and  pre- 
vented from  diffusing  itself  by  conditions  of  which 
nothing  seems  known.  For  at  ordinary  times  the 
atmosphere  of  London  diffuses  itself  in  aerial  space 
and  is  lost,  but  on  this  hot  July  day  it  came  bodily 
and  undiluted  out  into  the  cornfields.  From  its 
appearance  I  should  say  it  would  travel  many 
miles  in  the  same  condition.  In  November  fog 
seems  seasonable  :  in  hot"  and  dry  July  this  phe- 
nomenon was  striking. 

Along  the  road  flocks  of  sheep  continue  to 
—  59  — 


5L3K     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     S£~ 


travel,  some  weary  enough,  and  these,  gravitating 
to  the  rear  of  the  flock  by  reason  of  infirmity,  lie 
down  in  the  dust  to  rest,  while  their  companions 
feed  on  the  wayside  sward.  But  the  shepherds  are 
careful  of  them,  and  do  not  hasten.  Shepherds  here 
often  carry  the  pastoral  crook.  In  districts  far 
from  the  metropolis  you  may  wander  about  for 
days,  and  with  sheep  all  round  you,  never  see  a 
shepherd  with  a  crook ;  but  near  town  the  pastoral 
staff  is  common. 

These  flocks  appear  to  be  on  their  way  to  the 
southern  down  farms,  and,  as  I  said  before,  the 
shepherds  are  tender  over  their  sheep  and  careful 
not  to  press  them.  I  regret  that  I  cannot  say  the 
same  about  the  bullocks,  droves  of  which  contin- 
ually go  by,  often  black  cattle,  and  occasionally 
even  the  little  Highland  animals.  The  appearance 
of  some  of  these  droves  is  quite  sufficient  to  indi- 
cate the  treatment  they  have  undergone.  Staring 
eyes,  heads  continually  turned  from  side  to  side, 
starting  at  everything,  sometimes  bare  places  on 
the  shoulders,  all  tell  the  same  tale  of  blows  and 
brutal  treatment. 

Suburban  streets  which  a  minute  before  were 
crowded  with  ladies  and  children  (most  gentlemen 
are  in  town  at  mid-day)  are  suddenly  vacated  when 
the  word  passes  that  cattle  are  coming.  People  rush 
everywhere,  into  gardens,  shops,  back  lanes,  any- 
—  6o_ 


NIGHTINGALE    ROAD 

where,  as  if  the  ringing  scabbards  of  charging  cav- 
alry were  heard,  or  the  peculiar  thumping  rattle 
of  rifles  as  they  come  to  the  "present"  before  a 
storm  of  bullets.  It  is  no  wonder  that  towns- 
folk exhibit  a  fear  of  cattle  which  makes  their 
friends  laugh  when  they  visit  the  country  after  such 
experiences  as  these.  This  should  be  put  down 
with  a  firm  hand. 

By  the  roadside  here  the  hay  tiers,  who  cut  up 
the  hay-ricks  into  trusses,  use  balances  —  a  trifling 
matter,  but  sufficient  to  mark  a  difference,  for  in 
the  west  such  men  use  a  steelyard  slung  on  a 
prong,  the  handle  of  the  prong  on  the  shoulder  and 
the  points  stuck  i'n  the  rick,  with  which  to  weigh 
the  trusses.  Wooden  cottages,  wooden  barns, 
wooden  mills  are  also  characteristic. 

Mouchers  come  along  the  road  at  all  times  and 
seasons,  gathering  sacksful  of  dandelions  in  spring, 
digging  up  fern  roots  and  cowslip  mars  for  sale, 
cutting  briars  for  standard  roses,  gathering  water- 
cresses  and  mushrooms,  and  in  the  winter  cutting 
rushes. 

There  is  a  rook  with  white  feathers  in  the  wing 
which  belongs  to  an  adjacent  rookery,  and  I  have 
observed  a  blackbird  also  streaked  with  white. 
One  January  day,  when  the  snow  was  on  the 
ground  and  the  frost  was  sharp,  when  the  pale  sun 
seemed  to  shine  brightest  round  the  rim  of  the  disk, 
—  61  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

as  if  there  were  a  band  of  stronger  light  there,  I 
saw  a  white  animal  under  a  heap  of  poles  by  the 
wayside,  near  the  great  hedge  I  have  mentioned. 
It  immediately  concealed  itself,  but,  thinking  that 
it  was  a  ferret  gone  astray,  I  waited,  and  presently 
the  head  and  neck  were  cautiously  protruded. 

I  made  the  usual  call  with  the  lips,  but  the  crea- 
ture instantly  returned  to  cover.  I  waited  again, 
hiding  this  time,  and  after  an  interval  the  creature 
moved  and  hastened  away  from  the  poles,  where  it 
was,  in  a  measure,  exposed,  to  the  more  secure 
shelter  of  some  bushes.  Then  I  saw  that  it  was  of  a 
clear  white,  while  so-called  white  ferrets  are  usually 
a  dingy  yellow,  and  the  white  tail  was  tipped  with 
black.  From  these  circumstances,  and  from  the 
timidity  and  anxious  desire  to  escape  observation, 
I  could  only  conclude  that  it  was  a  white  stoat. 

Stoats,  as  remarked  previously,  are  numerous  in 
these  hedges,  and  it  was  quite  possible  for  a  white 
one  to  be  among  them.  The  white  stoat  may  be 
said  to  exactly  resemble  the  ermine.  The  interest 
of  the  circumstance  arises  not  from  its  rarity,  but 
from  its  occurring  so  near  the  metropolis. 


A    BROOK 


OME  low  wooden  rails  guarding  the  ap- 
proach to  a  bridge  over  a  brook  one  day 
induced  me  to  rest  under  an  aspen,  with 
my  back  against  the  tree.  Some  horse- 
chestnuts,  beeches,  and  alders  grew  there,  fringing 
the  end  of  a  long  plantation  of  willow  stoles  which 
extended  in  the  rear  following  the  stream.  In 
front,  southwards,  there  were  open  meadows  and 
cornfields,  over  which  shadow  and  sunshine  glided 
in  succession  as  the  sweet  westerly  wind  carried 
the  white  clouds  before  it. 

The  brimming  brook,  as  it  wound  towards  me 
through  the  meads,  seemed  to  tremble  on  the  verge 
of  overflowing,  as  the  crown  of  wine  in  a  glass 
rises  yet  does  not  spill.  Level  with  the  green 
grass,  the  water  gleamed  as  though  polished  where 
it  flowed  smoothly,  crossed  with  the  dark  shadows 
of  willows  which  leaned  over  it.  By  the  bridge, 
where  the  breeze  rushed  through  the  arches,  a 
ripple  flashed  back  the  golden  rays.  The  surface 
by  the  shore  slipped  towards  a  side  hatch  and 
passed  over  in  a  liquid  curve,  clear  and  unvarying, 
-63- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON    y&L 


as  if  of  solid  crystal,  till  shattered  on  the  stones, 
where  the  air  caught  up  and  played  with  the  sound 
of  the  bubbles  as  they  broke. 

Beyond  the  green  slope  of  corn,  a  thin,  soft 
vapour  hung  on  the  distant  woods,  and  hid  the 
hills.  The  pale  young  leaves  of  the  aspen  rustled 
faintly,  not  yet  with  their  full  sound  ;  the  sprays 
of  the  horse-chestnut,  drooping  with  the  late  frosts, 
could  not  yet  keep  out  the  sunshine  with  their 
broad  green.  A  white  spot  on  the  footpath  yonder 
was  where  the  bloom  had  fallen  from  a  blackthorn 
bush. 

The  note  of  the  tree-pipit  came  from  over  the 
corn  —  there  were  some  detached  oaks  away  in  the 
midst  of  the  field,  and  the  birds  were  doubtless  fly- 
ing continually  up  and  down  between  the  wheat 
and  the  branches.  A  willow-wren  sang  plaintively 
in  the  plantation  behind,  and  once  a  cuckoo  called 
at  a  distance.  How  beautiful  is  the  sunshine ! 
The  very  dust  of  the  road  at  my  feet  seemed  to 
glow  with  whiteness,  to  be  lit  up  by  it,  and  to  be- 
come another  thing.  This  spot  henceforward  was 
a  place  of  pilgrimage. 

Looking  that  morning  over  the  parapet  of  the 
bridge,  down  stream,  there  was  a  dead  branch  at 
the  mouth  of  the  arch ;  it  had  caught  and  got  fixed 
while  it  floated  along.  A  quantity  of  aquatic  weeds 
coming  down  the  stream  had  drifted  against  the 
64 


A    BROOK 


branch  and  remained  entangled  in  it.  Fresh  weeds 
were  still  coming  and  adding  to  the  mass,  which 
had  attracted  a  water-rat. 

Perched  on  the  branch,  the  little  brown  creature 
bent  forward  over  the  surface,  and  with  its  two 
forepaws  drew  towards  it  the  slender  thread  of  a 
weed,  exactly  as  with  hands.  Holding  the  thread 
in  the  paws,  it  nibbled  it,  eating  the  sweet  and 
tender  portion,  feeding  without  fear,  though  but  a 
few  feet  away,  and  precisely  beneath  me. 

In  a  minute  the  surface  of  the  current  was  dis- 
turbed by  larger  ripples.  There  had  been  a  ripple 
caused  by  the  draught  through  the  arch,  but  this 
was  now  increased.  Directly  afterwards  a  moor- 
hen swam  out,  and  began  to  search  among  the 
edge  of  the  tangled  weeds.  So  long  as  I  was 
perfectly  still  the  bird  took  no  heed,  but  at  a  slight 
movement  instantly  scuttled  back  under  the  arch. 
The  water-rat,  less  timorous,  paused,  looked  round, 
and  returned  to  feeding. 

Crossing  to  the  other  side  of  the  bridge,  up 
stream,  and  looking  over,  the  current  had  scooped 
away  the  sand  of  the  bottom  by  the  central  pier, 
exposing  the  brickwork  to  some  depth  —  the  same 
undermining  process  that  goes  on  by  the  piers  of 
bridges  over  great  rivers.  Nearer  the  shore  the 
sand  has  silted  up,  leaving  it  shallow,  where  water- 
parsnip  and  other  weeds  joined,  as  it  were,  the 
5  -65- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON    s= 


verge  of  the  grass  and  the  stream.  The  sunshine 
reflected  from  the  ripples  on  this,  the  southern  side, 
continually  ran  with  a  swift,  trembling  motion  up 
the  arch. 

Penetrating  the  clear  water,  the  light  revealed  the 
tiniest  stone  at  the  bottom ;  but  there  was  no  fish, 
no  water-rat,  or  moorhen  on  this  side.  Neither 
on  that  nor  many  succeeding  mornings  could  any- 
thing be  seen  there ;  the  tail  of  the  arch  was 
evidently  the  favourite  spot.  Carefully  looking 
over  that  side  again,  the  moorhen  who  had  been 
out  rushed  back ;  the  water-rat  was  gone.  Were 
there  any  fish  ?  In  the  shadow  the  water  was 
difficult  to  see  through,  and  the  brown  scum  of 
spring  that  lined  the  bottom  rendered  everything 
uncertain. 

By  gazing  steadily  at  a  stone  my  eyes  presently 
became  accustomed  to  the  peculiar  light,  the  pupils 
adjusted  themselves  to  it,  and  the  brown  tints 
became  more  distinctly  defined.  Then  sweeping 
by  degrees  from  a  stone  to  another,  and  from 
thence  to  a  rotting  stick  embedded  in  the  sand, 
I  searched  the  bottom  inch  by  inch.  If  you  look, 
as  it  were,  at  large — at  everything  at  once — you 
see  nothing.  If  you  take  some  object  as  a  fixed 
point,  gaze  all  around  it,  and  then  move  to  another, 
nothing  can  escape. 

Even  the  deepest,  darkest  water  (not,  of  course, 
—  66  — 


A    BROOK 


muddy)  yields  after  a  while  to  the  eye.  Half  close 
the  eyelids,  and  while  gazing  into  it  let  your  intel- 
ligence rather  wait  upon  the  corners  of  the  eye 
than  on  the  glance  you  cast  straight  forward.  For 
some  reason  when  thus  gazing  the  edge  of  the  eye 
becomes  exceedingly  sensitive,  and  you  are  con- 
scious of  slight  motions  or  of  a  thickness  —  not 
a  defined  object,  but  a  thickness  which  indicates  an 
object  —  which  is  otherwise  quite  invisible. 

The  slow  feeling  sway  of  a  fish's  tail,  the  edges 
of  which  curl  over  and  grasp  the  water,  may  in 
this  manner  be  identified  without  being  positively 
seen,  and  the  dark  outline  of  its  body  known  to 
exist  against  the  equally  dark  water  or  bank. 
Shift,  too,  your  position  according  to  the  fall  of  the 
light,  just  as  in  looking  at  a  painting.  From  one 
point  of  view  the  canvas  shows  little  but  the 
presence  of  paint  and  blurred  colour,  from  another 
at  the  side  the  picture  stands  out. 

Sometimes  the  water  can  be  seen  into  best  from 
above,  sometimes  by  lying  on  the  sward,  now  by 
standing  back  a  little  way,  or  crossing  to  the  oppo- 
site shore.  A  spot  where  the  sunshine  sparkles  with 
dazzling  gleam  is  perhaps  perfectly  impenetrable  till 
you  get  the  other  side  of  the  ripple,  when  the  same 
rays  that  just  now  baffled  the  glance  light  up  the 
bottom  as  if  thrown  from  a  mirror  for  the  pur- 
pose. I  convinced  myself  that  there  was  nothing 
-67- 


^3*     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 


here,  nothing  visible  at  present  —  not  so  much  as  a 
stickleback. 

Yet  the  stream  ran  clear  and  sweet,  and  deep  in 
places.  It  was  too  broad  for  leaping  over.  Down 
the  current  sedges  grew  thickly  at  a  curve ;  up  the 
stream  the  young  flags  were  rising ;  it  had  an  in- 
habited look,  if  such  a  term  may  be  used,  and 
moorhens  and  water-rats  were  about,  but  no  fish. 
A  wide  furrow  came  along  the  meadow  and  joined 
the  stream  from  the  side.  Into  this  furrow,  at  flood 
time,  the  stream  overflowed  further  up,  and  irri- 
gated the  level  sward. 

At  present  it  was  dry,  its  course,  traced  by  the 
yellowish  and  white  hue  of  the  grasses  in  it  only 
recently  under  water,  contrasting  with  the  brilliant 
green  of  the  sweet  turf  around.  There  was  a  marsh 
marigold  in  it,  with  stems  a  quarter  of  an  inch 
thick ;  and  in  the  grass  on  the  verge,  but  just  be- 
yond where  the  flood  reached,  grew  the  lilac-tinted 
cuckoo  flowers,  or  cardamine. 

The  side  hatch  supplied  a  pond  which  was  only 
divided  from  the  brook  by  a  strip  of  sward  not  more 
than  twenty  yards  across.  The  surface  of  the  pond 
was  dotted  with  patches  of  scum  that  had  risen  from 
the  bottom.  Part  at  least  of  it  was  shallow,  for  a 
dead  branch  blown  from  an  elm  projected  above 
the  water,  and  to  it  came  a  sedge-reedling  for  a 
moment.  The  sedge-reedling  is  so  fond  of  sedges 
—  68  — 


A    BROOK 

and  reeds  and  thick  undergrowth,  that  though  you 
hear  it  perpetually  within  a  few  yards  it  is  not  easy 
to  see  one.  On  this  bare  branch  the  bird  was  well 
displayed,  and  the  streak  by  the  eye  was  visible; 
but  he  stayed  there  for  a  second  or  two  only,  and 
then  back  again  to  the  sedges  and  willows. 

There  were  fish  I  felt  sure  as  I  left  the  spot 
and  returned  along  the  dusty  road,  but  where 
were  they? 

On  the  sward  by  the  wayside,  among  the  nettles 
and  under  the  bushes,  and  on  the  mound  the  dark 
green  arum  leaves  grew  everywhere,  sometimes  in 
bunches  close  together.  These  bunches  varied  — 
in  one  place  the  leaves  were  all  spotted  with  black 
irregular  blotches  ;  in  another  the  leaves  were  with- 
out such  markings.  When  the  root  leaves  of  the 
arum  first  push  up,  they  are  closely  rolled  together 
in  a  pointed  spike. 

This,  rising  among  the  dead  and  matted  leaves 
of  the  autumn,  occasionally  passes  through  holes  in 
them.  As  the  spike  grows  it  lifts  the  dead  leaves 
with  it,  which  hold  it  like  a  ring  and  prevent  it 
from  unfolding.  The  force  of  growth  is  not  suffi- 
ciently strong  to  burst  the  bond  asunder  till  the 
green  leaves  have  attained  considerable  size. 

A  little  earlier  in  the  year  the  chattering  of  mag- 
pies would  have  been  heard  while  looking  for  the 
signs  of  spring,  but  they  were  now  occupied  with 
-69- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

their  nests.  There  are  several  within  a  short  dis- 
tance, easily  distinguished  in  winter,  but  somewhat 
hidden  now  by  the  young  leaves.  Just  before  they 
settled  down  to  housekeeping  there  was  a  great 
chattering  and  fluttering  and  excitement,  as  they 
chased  each  other  from  elm  to  elm. 

Four  or  five  were  then  often  in  the  same  field, 
some  in  the  trees,  some  on  the  ground,  their  white 
and  black  showing  distinctly  on  the  level  brown 
earth  recently  harrowed  or  rolled.  On  such  a  sur- 
face birds  are  visible  at  a  distance ;  but  when  the 
blades  of  the  corn  begin  to  reach  any  height  such 
as  alight  are  concealed.  In  many  districts  of  the 
country  that  might  be  called  wild  and  lonely,  the 
magpie  is  almost  extinct.  Once  now  and  then  a 
pair  may  be  observed,  and  those  who  know  their 
haunts  can,  of  course,  find  them,  but  to  a  visitor 
passing  through,  there  seems  none.  But  here,  so 
near  the  metropolis,  the  magpies  are  common,  and 
during  an  hour's  walk  their  cry  is  almost  sure  to  be 
heard.  They  have,  however,  their  favourite  locality, 
where  they  are  much  more  frequently  seen. 

Coming  to  my  seat  under  the  aspen  by  the 
bridge  week  after  week,  the  burdocks  by  the  way- 
side gradually  spread  their  leaves,  and  the  proces- 
sion of  the  flowers  went  on.  The  dandelion,  the 
lesser  celandine,  the  marsh  marigold,  the  colts- 
foot, all  yellow,  had  already  led  the  van,  closely 
—  70  — 


A     BROOK  gc~. ...j 


accompanied  by  the  purple  ground-ivy,  the  red 
dead  nettle,  and  the  daisy ;  this  last  a  late  comer 
in  the  neighbourhood.  The  blackthorn,  the  horse- 
chestnut,  and  the  hawthorn  came,  and  the  meadows 
were  golden  with  the  buttercups. 

Once  only  had  I  noticed  any  indication  of  fish 
in  the  brook  ;  it  was  on  a  warm  Saturday  afternoon, 
when  there  was  a  labourer  a  long  way  up  the  stream, 
stooping  in  a  peculiar  manner  near  the  edge  of  the 
water  with  a  stick  in  his  hand.  He  was,  I  felt  sure, 
trying  to  wire  a  spawning  jack,  but  did  not  suc- 
ceed. Many  weeks  had  passed,  and  now  there 
came  (as  the  close  time  for  coarse  fish  expired) 
a  concourse  of  anglers  to  the  almost  stagnant 
pond  fed  by  the  side  hatch. 

Well-dressed  lads  with  elegant  and  finished  tackle 
rode  up  on  their  bicycles,  with  their  rods  slung  at 
their  backs.  Hoisting  the  bicycles  over  the  gate 
into  the  meadow,  they  left  them  leaning  against 
the  elms,  fitted  their  rods  and  fished  in  the  pond. 
Poorer  boys,  with  long  wands  cut  from  the  hedge 
and  ruder  lines,  trudged  up  on  foot,  sat  down  on 
the  sward  and  watched  their  corks  by  the  hour  to- 
gether. Grown  men  of  the  artisan  class,  covered 
with  the  dust  of  many  miles'  tramping,  came  with 
their  luncheons  in  a  handkerchief,  and  set  about 
their  sport  with  a  quiet  earnestness  which  argued 
long  if  desultory  practice. 

—  71  — 


5HE12     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 


In  fine  weather  there  were  often  a  dozen  youths 
and  four  or  five  men  standing,  sitting,  or  kneeling 
on  the  turf  along  the  shore  of  the  pond,  all  intent 
on  their  floats,  and  very  nearly  silent.  People 
driving  along  the  highway  stopped  their  traps  and 
carts  and  vans  a  minute  or  two  to  watch  them  : 
passengers  on  foot  leaned  over  the  gate,  or  sat 
down  and  waited  expectantly. 

Sometimes  one  of  the  more  venturesome  anglers 
would  tuck  up  his  trousers  and  walk  into  the 
shallow  water,  so  as  to  be  able  to  cast  his  bait 
under  the  opposite  bank,  where  it  was  deep.  Then 
an  ancient  and  much  battered  punt  was  discovered 
aground  in  a  field  at  some  distance,  and  dragged  to 
the  pond.  One  end  of  the  punt  had  quite  rotted 
away,  but  by  standing  at  the  other,  so  as  to  depress 
it  there  and  lift  the  open  end  above  the  surface, 
two,  or  even  three,  could  make  a  shift  to  fish 
from  it. 

The  silent  and  motionless  eagerness  with  which 
these  anglers  dwelt  upon  their  floats,  grave  as 
herons,  could  not  have  been  exceeded.  There 
they  were  day  after  day,  always  patient  and  always 
hopeful.  Occasionally  a  small  catch  —  a  mere 
"  bait  "  —  was  handed  round  for  inspection  ;  and 
once  a  cunning  fisherman,  acquainted  with  all  the 
secrets  of  his  craft,  succeeded  in  drawing  forth 
three  perch,  perhaps  a  quarter  of  a  pound  each,  and 
—  71  — 


A    BROOK 

one  slender  eel.  These  made  quite  a  show,  and 
were  greatly  admired ;  but  I  never  saw  the  same 
man  there  again.  He  was  satisfied. 

As  I  sat  on  the  white  rail  under  the  aspen,  and 
inhaled  the  scent  of  the  beans  flowering  hard  by, 
there  was  a  question  which  suggested  itself  to  me, 
and  the  answer  to  which  I  never  could  supply. 
The  crowd  about  the  pond  all  stood  with  their 
backs  to  the  beautiful  flowing  brook.  They  had 
before  them  the  muddy  banks  of  the  stagnant  pool, 
on  whose  surface  patches  of  scum  floated. 

Behind  them  was  the  delicious  stream,  clear  and 
limpid,  bordered  with  sedge  and  willow  and  flags, 
and  overhung  with  branches.  The  strip  of  sward 
between  the  two  waters  was  certainly  not  more 
than  twenty  yards;  there  was  no  division,  hedge, 
or  railing,  and  evidently  no  preservation,  for  the 
mouchers  came  and  washed  their  water-cress  which 
they  had  gathered  in  the  ditches  by  the  side  hatch, 
and  no  one  interfered  with  them. 

There  was  no  keeper  or  water  bailiff",  not  even 
a  notice  board.  Policemen,  on  foot  and  mounted, 
passed  several  times  daily,  and,  like  everybody  else, 
paused  to  see  the  sport,  but  said  not  a  word. 
Clearly,  there  was  nothing  whatever  to  prevent  any 
of  those  present  from  angling  in  the  stream  ;  yet 
they  one  and  all,  without  exception,  fished  in  the 
pond.  This  seemed  to  me  a  very  remarkable  fact. 
—  73  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

After  a  while  I  noticed  another  circumstance ; 
nobody  ever  even  looked  into  the  stream  or  under 
the  arches  of  the  bridge.  No  one  spared  a  moment 
from  his  float  amid  the  scum  of  the  pond,  just  to 
stroll  twenty  paces  and  glance  at  the  swift  current. 
It  appeared  from  this  that  the  pond  had  a  reputa- 
tion for  fish,  and  the  brook  had  not.  Everybody 
who  had  angled  in  the  pond  recommended  his 
friends  to  go  and  do  likewise.  There  were  fish  in 
the  pond. 

So  every  fresh  comer  went  and  angled  there,  and 
accepted  the  fact  that  there  were  fish.  Thus  the 
pond  obtained  a  traditionary  reputation,  which  cir- 
culated from  lip  to  lip  round  about.  I  need  not 
enlarge  on  the  analogy  that  exists  in  this  respect 
between  the  pond  and  various  other  things. 

By  implication  it  was  evidently  as  much  under- 
stood and  accepted  on  the  other  hand  that  there 
was  nothing  in  the  stream.  Thus  I  reasoned  it 
out,  sitting  under  the  aspen,  and  yet  somehow  the 
general  opinion  did  not  satisfy  me.  There  must 
be  something  in  so  sweet  a  stream.  The  sedges 
by  the  shore,  the  flags  in  the  shallow,  slowly  sway- 
ing from  side  to  side  with  the  current,  the  sedge- 
reedlings  calling,  the  moorhens  and  water-rats,  all 
gave  an  air  of  habitation. 

One  morning,  looking  very  gently  over  the  para- 
pet of  the  bridge  (down  stream)  into  the  shadowy 
—  74  — 


A    BROOK 

depth  beneath,  just  as  my  eyes  began  to  see  the 
bottom,  something  like  a  short  thick  dark  stick 
drifted  out  from  the  arch,  somewhat  sideways. 
Instead  of  proceeding  with  the  current,  it  had 
hardly  cleared  the  arch  when  it  took  a  position 
parallel  to  the  flowing  water  and  brought  up.  It 
was  thickest  at  the  end  that  faced  the  stream ;  at 
the  other  there  was  a  slight  motion  as  if  caused 
by  the  current  against  a  flexible  membrane,  as  it 
sways  a  flag.  Gazing  down  intently  into  the 
shadow,  the  colour  of  the  sides  of  the  fish  appeared 
at  first  not  exactly  uniform,  and  presently  these 
indistinct  differences  resolved  themselves  into  spots. 
It  was  a  trout,  perhaps  a  pound  and  a  half  in 
weight. 

His  position  was  at  the  side  of  the  arch,  out  of 
the  rush  of  the  current,  and  almost  behind  the  pier, 
but  where  he  could  see  anything  that  came  floating 
along  under  the  culvert.  Immediately  above  him 
but  not  over  was  the  mass  of  weeds  tangled  in  the 
dead  branch.  Thus  in  the  shadow  of  the  bridge 
and  in  the  darkness  under  the  weeds  he  might 
easily  have  escaped  notice.  He  was,  too,  extremely 
wary.  The  slightest  motion  was  enough  to  send 
him  instantly  under  the  arch ;  his  cover  was  but 
a  foot  distant,  and  a  trout  shoots  twelve  inches  in 
a  fraction  of  time. 

The  summer  advanced,  the  hay  was  carted,  and 
—  75  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

the  wheat  ripened.  Already  here  and  there  the 
reapers  had  cut  portions  of  the  more  forward  corn. 
As  I  sat  from  time  to  time  under  the  aspen,  within 
hearing  of  the  murmuring  water,  the  thought  did 
rise  occasionally  that  it  was  a  pity  to  leave  the  trout 
there  till  some  one  blundered  into  the  knowledge 
of  his  existence. 

There  were  ways  and  means  by  which  he  could 
be  withdrawn  without  any  noise  or  publicity.  But, 
then,  what  would  be  the  pleasure  of  securing  him, 
the  fleeting  pleasure  of  an  hour,  compared  to  the 
delight  of  seeing  him  almost  day  by  day  ?  I 
watched  him  for  many  weeks,  taking  great  precau- 
tions that  no  one  should  observe  how  continually 
I  looked  over  into  the  water  there.  Sometimes 
after  a  glance  I  stood  with  my  back  to  the  wall  as  if 
regarding  an  object  on  the  other  side.  If  any  one 
was  following  me,  or  appeared  likely  to  peer  over  the 
parapet,  I  carelessly  struck  the  top  of  the  wall  with 
my  stick  in  such  a  manner  that  it  should  project, 
an  action  sufficient  to  send  the  fish  under  the  arch. 
Or  I  raised  my  hat  as  if  heated,  and  swung  it  so 
that  it  should  alarm  him. 

If  the  coast  was  clear  when  I  had  looked  at  him, 
still  I  never  left  without  sending  him  under  the 
arch  in  order  to  increase  his  alertness.  It  was  a 
relief  to  know  that  so  many  persons  who  went  by 
wore  tall  hats,  a  safeguard  against  their  seeing  any- 
-76- 


A    BROOK 

thing,  for  if  they  approached  the  shadow  of  the 
tall  hat  reached  out  beyond  the  shadow  of  the 
parapet,  and  was  enough  to  alarm  him  before  they 
could  look  over.  So  the  summer  passed,  and, 
though  never  free  from  apprehensions,  to  my  great 
pleasure  without  discovery. 


—  77  — 


A   LONDON   TROUT 


I, — j  i — ^HE  sword-flags  are  rusting  at  their  edges, 
and  their  sharp  points  are  turned.     On 
the   matted   and   entangled   sedges   lie 
J  \^        the  scattered  leaves  which  every  rush 
of  the   October  wind   hurries    from   the   boughs. 
Some  fall  on  the  water  and  float  slowly  with  the 
current,  brown  and  yellow  spots  on  the  dark  sur- 
face.    The  grey  willows  bend  to  the  breeze;  soon 
the  osier  beds  will  look  reddish  as  the  wands  are 
stripped    by   the    gusts.     Alone    the    thick    polled 
alders  remain  green,  and  in  their  shadow  the  brook 
is  still  darker.     Through  a  poplar's  thin  branches 
the  wind  sounds  as  in  the  rigging  of  a  ship ;   for 
the  rest,  it  is  silence. 

The  thrushes  have  not  forgotten  the  frost  of  the 
morning,  and  will  not  sing  at  noon  ;  the  summer 
visitors  have  flown,  and  the  moorhens  feed  quietly. 
The  plantation  by  the  brook  is  silent,  for  the 
sedges,  though  they  have  drooped  and  become  en- 
tangled, are  not  dry  and  sapless  yet  to  rustle  loudly. 
They  will  rustle  dry  enough  next  spring,  when  the 
sedge-birds  come.  A  long  withey-bed  borders  the 
-78- 


A    LONDON    TROUT 

brook,  and  is  more  resorted  to  by  sedge-reedlings, 
or  sedge-birds,  as  they  are  variously  called,  than 
any  place  I  know,  even  in  the  remotest  country. 

Generally  it  has  been  difficult  to  see  them,  be- 
cause the  withey  is  in  leaf  when  they  come,  and 
the  leaves  and  sheaves  of  innumerable  rods  hide 
them,  while  the  ground  beneath  is  covered  by  a 
thick  growth  of  sedges  and  flags,  to  which  the 
birds  descend.  It  happened  once,  however,  that 
the  withey  stoles  had  been  polled,  and  in  the  spring 
the  boughs  were  short  and  small.  At  the  same 
time,  the  easterly  winds  checked  the  sedges,  so  that 
they  were  hardly  half  their  height,  and  the  flags 
were  thin,  and  not  much  taller,  when  the  sedge- 
birds  came,  so  that  they  for  once  found  but  little 
cover,  and  could  be  seen  to  advantage. 

There  could  not  have  been  less  than  fifteen  in 
the  plantation,  two  frequented  some  bushes  beside 
a  pond  near  by,  some  stayed  in  scattered  willows 
farther  down  the  stream.  They  sang  so  much 
they  scarcely  seemed  to  have  time  to  feed.  While 
approaching  one  that  was  singing  by  gently  walk- 
ing on  the  sward  by  the  road-side,  or  where  thick 
dust  deadened  the  footsteps,  suddenly  another  would 
commence  in  the  low  thorn  hedge  on  a  branch,  so 
near  that  it  could  be  touched  with  a  walking  stick. 
Yet  though  so  near  the  bird  was  not  wholly  visible 
—  he  was  partly  concealed  behind  a  fork  of  the 
—  79  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

bough.  This  is  a  habit  of  the  sedge-birds.  Not 
in  the  least  timid,  they  chatter  at  your  elbow,  and 
yet  always  partially  hidden. 

If  in  the  withey,  they  choose  a  spot  where  the 
rods  cross  or  bunch  together.  If  in  the  sedges, 
though  so  close  it  seems  as  if  you  could  reach  for- 
ward and  catch  him,  he  is  behind  the  stalks.  To 
place  some  obstruction  between  themselves  and  any 
one  passing  is  their  custom  ;  but  that  spring,  as  the 
foliage  was  so  thin,  it  only  needed  a  little  dexterity 
in  peering  to  get  a  view.  The  sedge-bird  perches 
aside,  on  a  sloping  willow  rod,  and,  slightly  raising 
his  head,  chatters,  turning  his  bill  from  side  to  side. 
He  is  a  very  tiny  bird,  and  his  little  eye  looks  out 
from  under  a  yellowish  streak.  His  song  at  first 
sounds  nothing  but  chatter. 

After  listening  a  while  the  ear  finds  a  scale  in 
it  —  an  arrangement  and  composition  —  so  that, 
though  still  a  chatter,  it  is  a  tasteful  one.  At  in- 
tervals he  intersperses  a  chirp,  exactly  the  same  as 
that  of  the  sparrow,  a  chirp  with  a  tang  in  it. 
Strike  a  piece  of  metal,  and  besides  the  noise  of  the 
blow,  there  is  a  second  note,  or  tang.  The  spar- 
row's chirp  has  such  a  note  sometimes,  and  the 
sedge-bird  brings  it  in  —  tang,  tang,  tang.  This 
sound  has  given  him  his  country  name  of  brook- 
sparrow,  and  it  rather  spoils  his  song.  Often  the 
moment  he  has  concluded  he  starts  for  another 
—  80  — 


A    LONDON    TROUT 

willow  stole,  and  as  he  flies  begins  to  chatter  when 
half-way  across,  and  finishes  on  a  fresh  branch. 

But  long  before  this  another  bird  has  commenced 
to  sing  in  a  bush  adjacent ;  a  third  takes  it  up  in 
the  thorn  hedge;  a  fourth  in  the  bushes  across  the 
pond;  and  from  farther  down  the  stream  comes  a 
faint  and  distant  chatter.  Ceaselessly  the  compet- 
ing gossip  goes  on  the  entire  day  and  most  of  the 
night ;  indeed  sometimes  all  night  through.  On  a 
warm  spring  morning,  when  the  sunshine  pours 
upon  the  willows,  and  even  the  white  dust  of  the 
road  is  brighter,  bringing  out  the  shadows  in  clear 
definition,  their  lively  notes  and  quick  motions 
make  a  pleasant  commentary  on  the  low  sound  of 
the  stream  rolling  round  the  curve. 

A  moorhen's  call  comes  from  the  hatch.  Broad 
yellow  petals  of  marsh-marigold  stand  up  high 
among  the  sedges  rising  from  the  greyish-green 
ground,  which  is  covered  with  a  film  of  sun-dried 
aquatic  grass  left  dry  by  the  retiring  waters.  Here 
and  there  are  lilac-tinted  cuckoo-flowers,  drawn 
up  on  taller  stalks  than  those  that  grow  in  the 
meadows.  The  black  flowers  of  the  sedges  are 
powdered  with  yellow  pollen ;  and  dark  green 
sword-flags  are  beginning  to  spread  their  fans. 
But  just  across  the  road,  on  the  topmost  twigs  of 
birch  poles,  swallows  twitter  in  the  tenderest  tones 
to  their  loves.  From  the  oaks  in  the  meadows  on 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

that  side  titlarks  mount  above  the  highest  bough 
and  then  descend,  sing,  sing,  singing,  to  the  grass. 

A  jay  calls  in  a  circular  copse  in  the  midst  of 
the  meadow ;  solitary  rooks  go  over  to  their  nests 
in  the  elms  on  the  hill ;  cuckoos  call,  now  this 
way  and  now  that,  as  they  travel  round.  While 
leaning  on  the  grey  and  lichen-hung  rails  by  the 
brook,  the  current  glides  by,  and  it  is  the  motion 
of  the  water  and  its  low  murmur  which  renders 
the  place  so  idle  ;  the  sunbeams  brood,  the  air  is 
still  but  full  of  song.  Let  us,  too,  stay  and  watch 
the  petals  fall  one  by  one  from  a  wild  apple  and 
float  down  on  the  stream. 

But  now  in  autumn  the  haws  are  red  on  the 
thorn,  the  swallows  are  few  as  they  were  in  the 
earliest  spring ;  the  sedge-birds  have  flown,  and 
the  redwings  will  soon  be  here.  The  sharp  points 
of  the  sword-flags  are  turned,  their  edges  rusty, 
the  forget-me-nots  are  gone.  October's  winds  are 
too  searching  for  us  to  linger  beside  the  brook, 
but  still  it  is  pleasant  to  pass  by  and  remember  the 
summer  days.  For  the  year  is  never  gone  by  ;  in 
a  moment  we  can  recall  the  sunshine  we  enjoyed 
in  May,  the  roses  we  gathered  in  June,  the  first 
wheatear  we  plucked  as  the  green  corn  filled, 
Other  events  go  by  and  are  forgotten,  and  even 
the  details  of  our  own  lives,  so  immensely  impor- 
tant to  us  at  the  moment,  in  time  fade  from  the 
—  82  — 


A    LONDON    TROUT 

memory  till  the  date  we  fancied  we  should  never 
forget  has  to  be  sought  in  a -diary.  But  the  year 
is  always  with  us ;  the  months  are  familiar  always ; 
they  have  never  gone  by. 

So  with  the  red  haws  around  and  the  rustling 
leaves  it  is  easy  to  recall  the  flowers.  The  withey 
plantation  here  is  full  of  flowers  in  summer; 
yellow  iris  flowers  in  June  when  midsummer 
comes,  for  the  iris  loves  a  thunder-shower.  The 
flowering  flag  spreads  like  a  fan  from  the  root,  the 
edges  overlap  near  the  ground,  and  the  leaves  are 
broad  as  swordblades,  indeed  the  plant  is  one  of 
the  largest  that  grows  wild.  It  is  quite  different 
from  the  common  flag  with  three  grooves  —  bayo- 
net shape  —  which  appears  in  every  brook.  The 
yellow  iris  is  much  more  local,  and  in  many  coun- 
try streams  may  be  sought  for  in  vain,  so  that  so 
fine  a  display  as  may  be  seen  here  seemed  almost  a 
discovery  to  me. 

They  were  finest  in  the  year  of  rain,  1879,  that 
terrible  year  which  is  fresh  in  the  memory  of  all 
who  have  any  interest  in  out-of-door  matters.  At 
midsummer  the  plantation  was  aglow  with  iris 
bloom.  The  large  yellow  petals  were  everywhere 
high  above  the  sedge;  in  one  place  a  dozen,  then 
two  or  three,  then  one  by  itself,  then  another 
bunch.  The  marsh  was  a  foot  deep  in  water, 
which  could  only  be  seen  by  parting  the  stalks  of 
-83- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

the  sedges,  for  it  was  quite  hidden  under  them. 
Sedges  and  flags  grew  so  thick  that  everything  was 
concealed  except  the  yellow  bloom  above. 

One  bunch  grew  on  a  bank  raised  a  few  inches 
above  the  flood  which  the  swollen  brook  had 
poured  in,  and  there  I  walked  among  them  ;  the 
leaves  came  nearly  up  to  the  shoulder,  the  golden 
flowers  on  the  stalks  stood  equally  high.  It  was 
a  thicket  of  iris.  Never  before  had  they  risen  to 
such  a  height ;  it  was  like  the  vegetation  of  tropical 
swamps,  so  much  was  everything  drawn  up  by  the 
continual  moisture.  Who  could  have  supposed 
that  such  a  downpour  as  occurred  that  summer 
would  have  had  the  effect  it  had  upon  flowers  ? 
Most  would  have  imagined  that  the  excessive  rain 
would  have  destroyed  them ;  yet  never  was  there 
such  floral  beauty  as  that  year.  Meadow  orchis, 
buttercups,  the  yellow  iris,  all  the  spring  flowers 
came  forth  in  extraordinary  profusion.  The  hay 
was  spoiled,  the  farmers  ruined,  but  their  fields 
were  one  broad  expanse  of  flower. 

As  that  spring  was  one  of  the  wettest,  so  that 
of  the  year  in  present  view  was  one  of  the  driest, 
and  hence  the  plantation  between  the  lane  and  the 
brook  was  accessible,  the  sedges  and  flags  short, 
and  the  sedge-birds  visible.  There  is  a  beech  in 
the  plantation  standing  so  near  the  verge  of  the 
stream  that  its  boughs  droop  over.  It  has  a  num- 
_84- 


sE^cig  A    LONDON    TROUT 

her  of  twigs  around  the  stem  —  as  a  rule  the 
beechbole  is  clear  of  boughs,  but  some  which  are 
of  rather  stunted  growth  are  fringed  with  them. 
The  leaves  on  the  longer  boughs  above  fall  off  and 
voyage  down  the  brook,  but  those  on  the  lesser 
twigs  beneath,  and  only  a  little  way  from  the 
ground,  remain  on,  and  rustle,  dry  and  brown,  all 
through  the  winter. 

Under  the  shelter  of  these  leaves,  and  close  to 
the  trunk,  there  grew  a  plant  of  flag  —  the  tops  of 
the  flags  almost  reached  to  the  leaves  —  and  all 
the  winter  through,  despite  the  frosts  for  which 
it  was  remarkable,  despite  the  snow  and  the  bitter 
winds  which  followed,  this  plant  remained  green 
and  fresh.  From  this  beech  in  the  morning  a 
shadow  stretches  to  a  bridge  across  the  brook,  and 
in  that  shadow  my  trout  used  to  lie.  The  bank 
under  the  drooping  boughs  forms  a  tiny  clifF  a  foot 
high,  covered  with  moss,  and  here  I  once  observed 
shrew  mice  diving  and  racing  about.  But  only 
once,  though  I  frequently  passed  the  spot ;  it  is 
curious  that  I  did  not  see  them  afterwards. 

Just  below  the  shadow  of  the  beech  there  is  a 
sandy  oozy  shore,  where  the  footprints  of  moor- 
hens are  often  traceable.  Many  of  the  trees  of 
the  plantation  stand  in  water  after  heavy  rain ; 
their  leaves  drop  into  it  in  autumn,  and,  being 
away  from  the  influence  of  the  current,  stay  and 
-85- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

soak,  and  lie  several  layers  thick.  Their  edges 
overlap,  red,  brown,  and  pale  yellow,  with  the 
clear  water  above  and  shadows  athwart  it,  and  dry 
white  grass  at  the  verge.  A  horse-chestnut  drops 
its  fruit  in  the  dusty  road  ;  high  above  its  leaves 
are  tinted  with  scarlet. 

It  was  at  the  tail  of  one  of  the  arches  of  the 
bridge  over  the  brook  that  my  favourite  trout  used 
to  lie.  Sometimes  the  shadow  of  the  beech  came 
as  far  as  his  haunts,  that  was  early  in  the  morning, 
and  for  the  rest  of  the  day  the  bridge  itself  cast  a 
shadow.  The  other  parapet  faces  the  south,  and 
looking  down  from  it  the  bottom  of  the  brook  is 
generally  visible,  because  the  light  is  so  strong. 
At  the  bottom  a  green  plant  may  be  seen  waving 
to  and  fro  in  summer  as  the  current  sways  it. 
It  is  not  a  weed  or  flag,  but  a  plant  with  pale  green 
leaves,  and  looks  as  if  it  had  come  there  by  some 
chance  ;  this  is  the  water-parsnip. 

By  the  shore  on  this,  the  sunny  side  of  the 
bridge,  a  few  forget-me-nots  grow  in  their  season, 
water  crow's-foot  flowers,  flags  lie  along  the  sur- 
face and  slowly  swing  from  side  to  side  like  a 
boat  at  anchor.  The  breeze  brings  a  ripple,  and 
the  sunlight  sparkles  on  it ;  the  light  reflected 
dances  up  the  piers  of  the  bridge.  Those  that 
pass  along  the  road  are  naturally  drawn  to  this 
bright  parapet  where  the  brook  winds  brimming 


A    LONDON    TROUT 

full  through  green  meadows.  You  can  see  right 
to  the  bottom ;  you  can  see  where  the  rush  of  the 
water  has  scooped  out  a  deeper  channel  under  the 
arches,  but  look  as  long  as  you  like  there  are  no 
fish. 

The  trout  I  watched  so  long,  and  with  such 
pleasure,  was  always  on  the  other  side,  at  the  tail 
of  the  arch,  waiting  for  whatever  might  come 
through  to  him.  There  in  perpetual  shadow  he 
lay  in  wait,  a  little  at  the  side  of  the  arch,  scarcely 
ever  varying  his  position  except  to  dart  a  yard  up 
under  the  bridge  to  seize  anything  he  fancied,  and 
drifting  out  again  to  bring  up  at  his  anchorage. 
If  people  looked  over  the  parapet  that  side,  they  did 
not  see  him  ;  they  could  not  see  the  bottom  there 
for  the  shadow,  or  if  the  summer  noonday  cast  a 
strong  beam,  even  then  it  seemed  to  cover  the  sur- 
face of  the  water  with  a  film  of  light  which  could 
not  be  seen  through.  There  are  some  aspects 
from  which  even  a  picture  hung  on  the  wall  close 
at  hand  cannot  be  seen.  So  no  one  saw  the  trout ; 
if  any  one  more  curious  leant  over  the  parapet,  he 
was  gone  in  a  moment  under  the  arch. 

Folk  fished  in  the  pond  about  the  verge  of  which 
the  sedge-birds  chattered,  and  but  a  few  yards  dis- 
tant ;  but  they  never  looked  under  the  arch  on  the 
northern  and  shadowy  side,  where  the  water  flowed 
beside  the  beech.  For  three  seasons  this  con- 
—  87  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

tinued.  For  three  summers  I  had  the  pleasure  to 
see  the  trout  day  after  day  whenever  I  walked  that 
way,  and  all  that  time,  with  fishermen  close  at 
hand,  he  escaped  notice,  though  the  place  was  not 
preserved.  It  is  wonderful  to  think  how  difficult 
it  is  to  see  anything  under  one's  very  eyes,  and 
thousands  of  people  walked  actually  and  physically 
right  over  the  fish. 

However,  one  morning  in  the  third  summer,  I 
found  a  fisherman  standing  in  the  road  and  fishing 
over  the  parapet  in  the  shadowy  water.  But  he 
was  fishing  at  the  wrong  arch,  and  only  with  paste 
for  roach.  While  the  man  stood  there  fishing, 
along  came  two  navvies ;  naturally  enough  they 
went  quietly  up  to  see  what  the  fisherman  was 
doing,  and  one  instantly  uttered  an  exclamation. 
He  had  seen  the  trout.  The  man  who  was  fish- 
ing with  paste  had  stood  so  still  and  patient  that 
the  trout,  re-assured,  had  come  out,  and  the 
navvy  —  trust  a  navvy  to  see  anything  of  the  kind 
—  caught  sight  of  him. 

The  navvy  knew  how  to  see  through  water.  He 
told  the  fisherman,  and  there  was  a  stir  of  ex- 
citement, a  changing  of  hooks  and  bait.  I  could 
not  stay  to  see  the  result,  but  went  on,  fearing  the 
worst.  But  he  did  not  succeed;  next  day  the 
wary  trout  was  there  still,  and  the  next,  and 
the  next.  Either  this  particular  fisherman  was  not 


A    LONDON    TROUT 

able  to  come  again,  or  was  discouraged ;  at  any 
rate,  he  did  not  try  again.  The  fish  escaped, 
doubtless  more  wary  than  ever. 

In  the  spring  of  the  next  year  the  trout  was  still 
there,  and  up  to  the  summer  I  used  to  go  and  glance 
at  him.  This  was  the  fourth  season,  and  still  he 
was  there  ;  I  took  friends  to  look  at  this  wonder- 
ful fish,  which  defied  all  the  loafers  and  poach- 
ers, and,  above  all,  surrounded  himself  not  only 
with  the  shadow  of  the  bridge,  but  threw  a  mental 
shadow  over  the  minds  of  passers-by,  so  that  they 
never  thought  of  the  possibility  of  such  a  thing 
as  trout.  But  one  morning  something  happened. 
The  brook  was  dammed  up  on  the  sunny  side  of 
the  bridge,  and  the  water  let  off  by  a  side-hatch, 
that  some  accursed  main  or  pipe  or  other  horror 
might  be  laid  across  the  bed  of  the  stream  some- 
where far  down. 

Above  the  bridge  there  was  a  brimming  broad 
brook,  below  it  the  flags  lay  on  the  mud,  the  weeds 
drooped,  and  the  channel  was  dry.  It  was  dry  up 
to  the  beech  tree.  There,  under  the  drooping 
boughs  of  the  beech,  was  a  small  pool  of  muddy 
water,  perhaps  two  yards  long,  and  very  narrow  — 
a  stagnant  muddy  pool,  not  more  than  three  or 
four  inches  deep.  In  this  I  saw  the  trout.  In 
the  shallow  water,  his  back  came  up  to  the  surface 
(for  his  fins  must  have  touched  the  mud  sometimes) 
-89- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

—  once  it  came  above  the  surface,  and  his  spots 
showed  as  plain  as  if  you  had  held  him  in  your 
hand.  He  was  swimming  round  to  try  and  find 
out  the  reason  of  this  sudden  stinting  of  room. 

Twice  he  heaved  himself  somewhat  on  his  side 
over  a  dead  branch  that  was  at  the  bottom,  and 
exhibited  all  his  beauty  to  the  air  and  sunshine. 
Then  he  went  away  into  another  part  of  the 
shallow  and  was  hidden  by  the  muddy  water.  Now 
under  the  arch  of  the  bridge,  his  favorite  arch, 
close  by  there  was  a  deep  pool,  for,  as  already 
mentioned,  the  scour  of  the  current  scooped  away 
the  sand  and  made  a  hole  there.  When  the  stream 
was  shut  off  by  the  dam  above,  this  hole  remained 
partly  full.  Between  this  pool  and  the  shallow 
under  the  beech  there  was  sufficient  connection 
for  the  fish  to  move  into  it. 

My  only  hope  was  that  he  would  do  so,  and  as 
some  showers  fell,  temporarily  increasing  the  depth 
of  the  narrow  canal  between  the  two  pools,  there 
seemed  every  reason  to  believe  that  he  had  got  to 
that  under  the  arch.  If  now  only  that  accursed 
pipe  or  main,  or  whatever  repair  it  was,  could 
only  be  finished  quickly,  even  now  the  trout  might 
escape !  Every  day  my  anxiety  increased,  for  the 
intelligence  would  soon  get  about  that  the  brook 
was  dammed  up,  and  any  pools  left  in  it  would  be 
sure  to  attract  attention. 

—  90  — 


A    LONDON    TROUT 

Sunday  came,  and  directly  the  bells  had  done 
ringing  four  men  attacked  the  pool  under  the  arch. 
They  took  off  shoes  and  stockings  and  waded  in, 
two  at  each  end  of  the  arch.  Stuck  in  the  mud 
close  by  was  an  eel-spear.  They  churned  up  the 
mud,  wading  in,  and  thickened  and  darkened  it  as 
they  groped  under.  No  one  could  watch  these 
barbarians  longer. 

Is  it  possible  that  he  could  have  escaped  ?  He 
was  a  wonderful  fish,  wary  and  quick.  Is  it  just 
possible  that  they  may  not  even  have  known  that 
a  trout  was  there  at  all ;  but  have  merely  hoped 
for  perch,  or  tench,  or  eels  ?  The  pool  was  deep 
and  the  fish  quick  —  they  did  not  bale  it,  might  he 
have  escaped  ?  Might  they  even,  if  they  did  find 
him,  have  mercifully  taken  him  and  placed  him 
alive  in  some  other  water  nearer  their  homes  ?  Is 
it  possible  that  he  may  have  almost  miraculously 
made  his  way  down  the  stream  into  other  pools  ? 

There  was  very  heavy  rain  one  night,  which 
might  have  given  him  such  a  chance.  These 
"  mights,"  and  "  ifs,"  and  "  is  it  possible "  even 
now  keep  alive  some  little  hope  that  some  day 
I  may  yet  see  him  again.  But  that  was  in  the 
early  summer.  It  is  now  winter,  and  the  beech 
has  brown  spots.  Among  the  limes  the  sedges  are 
matted  and  entangled,  the  sword-flags  rusty ;  the 
rooks  are  at  the  acorns,  and  the  plough  is  at  work 
—  91  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

in  the  stubble.  I  have  never  seen  him  since. 
I  never  failed  to  glance  over  the  parapet  into 
the  shadowy  water.  Somehow  it  seemed  to  look 
colder,  darker,  less  pleasant  than  it  used  to  do. 
The  spot  was  empty,  and  the  shrill  winds  whistled 
through  the  poplars. 


A    BARN 


j<A    BROAD  red  roof  of  tile  is  a  conspicuous 
l/\  \        object  on  the  same  road  which  winds 

lr==\  \  and  turns  in  true  crooked  country  fash- 
*JL  }  V  ion,  with  hedgerows,  trees,  and  fields 
on  both  sides,  and  scarcely  a  dwelling  visible.  It 
is  not,  indeed,  so  crooked  as  a  lane  in  Gloucester- 
shire, which  I  verily  believe  passes  the  same  tree 
thrice,  but  the  curves  are  frequent  enough  to  vary 
the  view  pleasantly. 

Approaching  from  either  direction,  on  turning  a 
certain  corner  a  great  red  roof  rises  high  above  the 
hedges,  and  the  line  of  its  ridge  is  seen  every  way 
through  the  trees.  With  this  old  barn,  as  with  so 
much  of  the  architecture  of  former  times,  the  roof 
is  the  most  important  part.  The  gables,  for  in- 
stance, of  Elizabethan  houses  occupy  the  eye  far 
more  than  the  walls;  and  so,  too,  with  the  antique 
halls  that  still  exist.  The  roof  of  this  old  barn  is 
itself  the  building  ;  the  roof  and  the  doors,  for  the 
sweeping  slope  of  the  tiles  comes  down  within 
reach  of  the  hand,  while  the  great  doors  extend 
half-way  to  the  ridge. 

—  93  — 


~-^g     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 


By  the  low  black  wooden  walls  a  little  chaff  has 
been  spilt,  and  has  blown  out  and  mingles  with 
the  dust  of  the  road.  Loose  straws  lie  across  the 
footpath,  trodden  flat  by  passing  feet;  straws  have 
wandered  across  the  road  and  lodged  on  the  mound, 
and  others  have  roamed  still  farther  round  the 
corner.  Between  the  gatepost  and  the  wall  that 
encloses  the  rickyard  more  straws  are  jammed,  and 
yet  more  are  borne  up  by  the  nettles  beneath  it. 

Mosses  have  grown  over  the  old  red  brick  wall, 
both  on  the  top  and  following  the  lines  of  the 
mortar,  and  bunches  of  wall  grasses  flourish  along 
the  top.  The  wheat,  and  barley,  and  hay  carted 
home  to  the  rickyard  contain  the  seeds  of  innum- 
erable plants,  many  of  which,  dropping  to  the 
ground,  come  up  next  year.  The  trodden  earth 
round  where  the  ricks  stood  seems  favourable  to 
their  early  appearance  ;  the  first  poppy  blooms 
here,  though  its  colour  is  paler  than  those  which 
come  afterwards  in  the  fields. 

In  spring  most  of  the  ricks  are  gone,  threshed 
and  sold,  but  there  remains  the  vast  pile  of  straw 
—  always  straw  —  and  the  three-cornered  stump 
of  a  hay-rick  which  displays  bands  of  different 
hues,  one  above  the  other,  like  the  strata  of  a 
geological  map.  Some  of  the  hay  was  put  up 
damp,  some  in  good  condition,  and  some  had  been 
browned  by  bad  weather  before  being  carted. 
—  94  — 


A     BARN 


About  the  straw-rick,  and  over  the  chaff  that 
everywhere  strews  the  earth,  numerous  fowls  search, 
and  by  the  gateway  Chanticleer  proudly  stands,  tall 
and  upright,  the  king  of  the  rickyard  still,  as  he 
and  his  ancestors  have  been  these  hundreds  of 
years.  Under  the  granary,  which  is  built  on  stone 
staddles,  to  exclude  the  mice,  some  turkeys  are 
huddled  together  calling  occasionally  for  a  "  halter," 
and  beyond  them  the  green,  glossy  neck  of  a  drake 
glistens  in  the  sunshine. 

When  the  corn  is  high,  and  sometimes  before  it 
is  well  up,  the  doors  of  the  barn  are  daily  open, 
and  shock-headed  children  peer  over  the  hatch. 
There  are  others  within  playing  and  tumbling  on 
aheap  of  straw  —  always  straw  —  which  is  their 
bed  at  night.  The  sacks  which  form  their  coun- 
terpane are  rolled  aside,  and  they  have  half  the 
barn  for  their  nursery.  If  it  is  wet,  at  least  one 
great  girl  and  the  mother  will  be  there  too,  gravely 
sewing,  and  sitting  where  they  can  see  all  that  goes 
along  the  road. 

A  hundred  yards  away,  in  a  corner  of  an  arable 
field,  the  very  windiest  and  most  draughty  that 
could  be  chosen,  where  the  hedge  is  cut  down  so 
that  it  can  barely  be  called  a  hedge,  and  where  the 
elms  draw  the  wind,  the  men  of  the  family  crowd 
over  a  smoky  fire.  In  the  wind  and  rain  the  fire 
could  not  burn  at  all  had  they  not  by  means  of  a 
—  95  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

stick  propped  up  a  hurdle  to  windward,  and  thus 
sheltered  it.  As  it  is,  there  seems  no  flame,  only 
white  embers  and  a  flow  of  smoke,  into  which  the 
men  from  time  to  time  cast  the  dead  wood  they 
have  gathered.  Here  the  pot  is  boiled  and  the 
cooking  accomplished  at  a  safe  distance  from  the 
litter  and  straw  of  the  rickvard. 

These  people  are  Irish,  who  come  year  after 
year  to  the  same  barn  for  the  hoeing  and  the 
harvest,  travelling  from  the  distant  West  to  gather 
agricultural  wages  on  the  verge  of  the  metropolis. 

In  fine  summer  weather,  beside  the  usual  busi- 
ness traffic,  there  goes  past  this  windy  bare  corner 
a  constant  stream  of  pleasure-seekers,  heavily  laden 
four-in-hands,  tandems,  dog-carts,  equestrians,  and 
open  carriages,  filled  with  well-dressed  ladies.  They 
represent  the  abundant  gold  of  trade  and  com- 
merce. In  their  careless  luxury  they  do  not  notice 
—  how  should  they  ?  —  the  smoky  fire  in  the 
barren  corner,  or  the  shock-headed  children  staring 
at  the  equipages  over  the  hatch  at  the  barn. 

Within  a  mile  there  is  a  similar  fire,  which  by 
day  is  not  noticeable,  because  the  spot  is  under  a 
hedge  two  meadows  back  from  the  road.  At  night 
it  shows  brightly,  and  even  as  late  as  eleven  o'clock 
dusky  figures  may  be  seen  about  it,  as  if  the  family 
slept  in  the  open  air.  A  third  fire  is  kept  up  in 
the  same  neighbourhood,  but  in  a  different  direc- 
_96- 


^u      A    BARN 

tion,  in  a  meadow  bordering  on  a  lonely  lane. 
There  is  a  thatched  shed  behind  the  hedge,  which 
is  the  sleeping-place  —  the  fire  burns  some  forty 
yards  away.  Still  another  shines  at  night  in  an 
open  arable  field,  where  is  a  barn. 

One  day  I  observed  a  farmer's  courtyard  com- 
pletely filled  with  groups  of  men,  women,  and 
children,  who  had  come  travelling  round  to  do  the 
harvesting.  They  had  with  them  a  small  cart  or 
van  —  not  of  the  kind  which  the  show  folk  use  as 
moveable  dwellings,  but  for  the  purpose  of  carrying 
their  pots,  pans,  and  the  like.  The  greater  number 
carry  their  burdens  on  their  backs,  trudging  afoot. 

A  gang  of  ten  or  twelve  once  gathered  round  me 
to  inquire  the  direction  of  some  spot  they  desired  to 
reach.  A  powerful-looking  woman,  with  reaping- 
hook  in  her  hand  and  cooking  implements  over 
her  shoulder,  was  the  speaker.  The  rest  did  not 
appear  to  know  a  word  of  English,  and  her  pro- 
nunciation was  so  peculiar  that  it  was  impossible 
to  understand  what  she  meant  except  by  her  ges- 
tures. I  suppose  she  wanted  to  find  a  farm,  the 
name  of  which  I  could  not  get  at,  and  then  per- 
ceiving she  was  not  understood  her  broad  face 
flushed  red  and  she  poured  out  a  flood  of  Irish  in 
her  excitement.  The  others  chimed  in,  and  the 
din  redoubled.  At  last  I  caught  the  name  of  a 
town  and  was  thus  able  to  point  the  way. 
7  -97- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

About  harvest  time  it  is  common  to  meet  an 
Irish  labourer  dressed  in  the  national  costume :  a 
tall,  upright  fellow  with  a  long-tailed  coat,  breeches, 
and  worsted  stockings.  He  walks  as  upright  as  if 
drilled,  with  a  quick  easy  gait  and  springy  step, 
quite  distinct  from  the  Saxon  stump.  When  the 
corn  is  cut  these  bivouac  fires  go  out,  and  the  camp 
disappears,  but  the  white  ashes  remain,  and  next 
season  the  smoke  will  rise  again. 

The  barn  here  with  its  broad  red  roof,  and  the 
rickyard  with  the  stone  staddles,  and  the  litter  of 
chaff  and  straw,  is  the  central  rendezvous  all  the 
year  of  the  resident  labourers.  Day  by  day,  and  at 
all  hours,  there  is  sure  to  be  some  of  them  about 
the  place.  The  stamp  of  the  land  is  on  them. 
They  border  on  the  city,  but  are  as  distinctly  agri- 
cultural and  as  immediately  recognisable  as  in  the 
heart  of  the  country.  This  sturdy  carter,  as  he 
comes  round  the  corner  of  the  straw-rick,  cannot 
be  mistaken. 

He  is  short,  and  thickly  set,  a  man  of  some  fifty 
years,  but  hard  and  firm  of  make.  His  face  is 
broad  and  red,  his  shiny  fat  cheeks  almost  as  promi- 
nent as  his  stumpy  nose,  likewise  red  and  shiny. 
A  fringe  of  reddish  whiskers  surrounds  his  chin 
like  a  cropped  hedge.  The  eyes  are  small  and  set 
deeply,  a  habit  of  half  closing  the  lids  when  walk- 
ing in  the  teeth  of  the  wind  and  rain  has  caused 
_98- 


A    BARN 


them  to  appear  still  smaller.  The  wi  inkles  at  the 
corners  and  the  bushy  eyebrows  are  more  visible 
and  pronounced  than  the  eyes  themselves,  which 
are  mere  bright  grey  points  twinkling  with  compla- 
cent good  humour. 

These  red  cheeks  want  but  the  least  motion  to 
break  into  a  smile  ;  the  action  of  opening  the  lips 
to  speak  is  sufficient  to  give  that  expression.  The 
fur  cap  he  wears  allows  the  round  shape  of  his  head 
to  be  seen,  and  the  thick  neck  which  is  the  colour 
of  a  brick.  He  trudges  deliberately  round  the  straw- 
rick  ;  there  is  something  in  the  style  of  the  man 
which  exactly  corresponds  to  the  barn,  and  the 
straw,  and  the  stone  staddles,  and  the  waggons. 
Could  we  look  back  three  hundred  years,  just  such 
a  man  would  be  seen  in  the  midst  of  the  same 
surroundings,  deliberately  trudging  round  the  straw- 
ricks  of  Elizabethan  days,  calm  and  complacent 
though  the  Armada  be  at  hand.  There  are  the 
ricks  just  the  same,  there  is  the  barn,  and  the 
horses  are  in  good  case  ;  the  wheat  is  coming  on 
well.  Armies  may  march,  but  these  are  the  same. 

When  his  waggon  creaks  along  the  road  towards 
the  town,  his  eldest  lad  walks  proudly  by  the 
leader's  head,  and  two  younger  boys  ride  in  the 
vehicle.  They  pass  under  the  great  elms  ;  now 
the  sunshine  and  now  the  shadow  falls  upon  them  ; 
the  horses  move  with  measured  step  and  without 
—  99  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     ae^ 


haste,  and  both  horses  and  human  folks  are  con- 
tent in  themselves. 

As  you  sit  in  summer  on  the  beach  and  gaze 
afar  over  the  blue  waters  scarcely  flecked  with 
foam,  how  slowly  the  distant  ship  moves  along  the 
horizon.  It  is  almost,  but  not  quite,  still.  You 
go  to  lunch  and  return,  and  the  vessel  is  still  there; 
what  patience  the  man  at  the  wheel  must  have. 
So,  now,  resting  here  on  the  stile,  see  the  plough 
yonder,  travelling  as  it  were  with  all  sails  set. 

Three  shapely  horses  in  line  draw  the  share. 
The  traces  are  taut,  the  swing-tree  like  a  yard 
braced  square,  the  helmsman  at  the  tiller  bears  hard 
upon  the  stilts.  But  does  it  move  ?  The  leading 
horse,  seen  distinct  against  the  sky,  lifts  a  hoof  and 
places  it  down  again,  stepping  in  the  last  furrow 
made.  But  then  there  is  a  perceptible  pause  before 
the  next  hoof  rises,  and  yet  again  a  perceptible 
delay  in  the  pull  of  the  muscles.  The  stooping 
ploughman  walking  in  the  new  furrow,  with  one 
foot  often  on  the  level  and  the  other  in  the  hollow, 
sways  a  little  with  the  lurch  of  his  implement,  but 
barely  drifts  ahead. 

While  watched  they  scarcely  move  ;  but  now 
look  away  for  a  time  and  on  returning  the  plough 
itself  and  the  lower  limbs  of  the  ploughman  and 
the  horses  are  out  of  sight.  They  have  gone  over 
a  slope,  and  are  "  hull  down  "  ;  a  few  minutes 


A     BARN 


more,  and  they  disappear  behind  the  ridge.  Look 
away  again  and  read  or  dream,  as  you  would  on 
the  beach,  and  then,  see,  the  head  and  shoulders 
of  the  leading  horse  are  up,  and  by-and-by  the 
plough  rises,  as  they  come  back  on  the  opposite 
tack.  Thus  the  long  hours  slowly  pass. 

Intent  day  after  day  upon  the  earth  beneath  his 
feet,  or  upon  the  tree  in  the  hedge  yonder,  by 
which,  as  by  a  lighthouse,  he  strikes  out  a  straight 
furrow,  his  mind  absorbs  the  spirit  of  the  land. 
When  the  plough  pauses,  as  he  takes  out  his  bread 
and  cheese  in  the  corner  of  the  field  for  luncheon, 
he  looks  over  the  low  cropped  hedge  and  sees  far 
off  the  glitter  of  the  sunshine  on  the  glass  roof  of 
the  Crystal  Palace.  The  light  plays  and  dances 
on  it,  flickering  as  on  rippling  water.  But,  though 
hard  by,  he  is  not  of  London.  The  horses  go  on 
again,  and  his  gaze  is  bent  down  upon  the  furrow. 

A  mile  or  so  up  the  road  there  is  a  place  where 
it  widens,  and  broad  strips  of  sward  run  parallel  on 
both  sides.  Beside  the  path,  but  just  off  it,  so  as 
to  be  no  obstruction,  an  aged  man  stands  watching 
his  sheep.  He  has  stood  there  so  long  that  at  last 
the  restless  sheep  dog  has  settled  down  on  the 
grass.  He  wears  a  white  smock-frock,  and  leans 
heavily  on  his  long  staff,  which  he  holds  with  both 
hands,  propping  his  chest  upon  it.  His  face  is  set 
in  a  frame  of  white  —  white  hair,  white  whiskers, 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     s^3J 

short  white  beard.  It  is  much  wrinkled  with 
years ;  but  still  has  a  hale  and  hearty  hue. 

The  sheep  are  only  on  their  way  from  one  part 
of  the  farm  to  another,  perhaps  half  a  mile ;  but 
they  have  already  been  an  hour,  and  will  probably 
occupy  another,  in  getting  there.  Some  are  feed- 
ing steadily ;  some  are  in  a  gateway,  doing  noth- 
ing, like  their  pastor  ;  if  they  were  on  the  loneliest 
slope  of  the  Downs,  he  and  they  could  not  be 
more  unconcerned.  Carriages  go  past,  and  neither 
the  sheep  nor  the  shepherd  turn  to  look. 

Suddenly  there  comes  a  hollow  booming  sound 
—  a  roar,  mellowed  and  subdued  by  distance,  with 
a  peculiar  beat  upon  the  ear,  as  if  a  wave  struck 
the  nerve  and  rebounded  and  struck  again  in  an 
infinitesimal  fraction  of  time  —  such  a  sound  as 
can  only  bellow  from  the  mouth  of  cannon.  An- 
other and  another.  The  big  guns  at  Woolwich 
are  at  work.  The  shepherd  takes  no  heed  — 
neither  he  nor  his  sheep. 

His  ears  must  acknowledge  the  sound,  but  his 
mind  pays  no  attention.  He  knows  of  nothing 
but  his  sheep.  You  may  brush  by  him  along  the 
footpath  and  it  is  doubtful  if  he  sees  you.  But 
stay  and  speak  about  the  sheep,  and  instantly  he 
looks  you  in  the  face  and  answers  with  interest. 

Round  the  corner  of  the  straw-rick  by  the  red- 
roofed  barn  there  comes  another  man,  this  time 


A    BARN 


with  smoke-blackened  face,  and  bringing  with  him 
an  odour  of  cotton  waste  and  oil.  He  is  the 
driver  of  a  steam  ploughing-engine,  whose  broad 
wheels  in  summer  leave  their  impression  in  the 
deep  white  dust  of  the  roads,  and  in  moist  weather 
sink  into  the  soil  at  the  gateways  and  leave  their 
mark  as  perfect  as  in  wax.  But  though  familiar 
with  valves,  and  tubes,  and  gauges,  spending  his 
hours  polishing  brass  and  steel,  and  sometimes 
busy  with  spanner  and  hammer,  his  talk,  too,  is 
of  the  fields. 

He  looks  at  the  clouds,  and  hopes  it  will  con- 
tinue fine  enough  to  work.  Like  many  others  of 
the  men  who  are  employed  on  the  farms  about 
town,  he  came  originally  from  a  little  village  a 
hundred  miles  away,  in  the  heart  of  the  country. 
The  stamp  of  the  land  is  on  him,  too. 

Besides  the  Irish,  who  pass  in  gangs  and  gener- 
ally have  a  settled  destination,  many  agricultural 
folk  drift  along  the  roads  and  lanes  searching  for 
work.  They  are  sometimes  alone,  or  in  couples, 
or  they  are  a  man  and  his  wife,  and  carry  hoes. 
You  can  tell  them  as  far  as  you  can  see  them,  for 
they  stop  and  look  over  every  gateway  to  note 
how  the  crop  is  progressing,  and  whether  any 
labour  is  required. 

On  Saturday  afternoons,  among  the  crowd  of 
customers  at  the  shops  in  the  towns,  under  the 
—  103  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

very  shadow  of  the  almost  palatial  villas  of  wealthy 
"  City  "  men,  there  may  be  seen  women  whose 
dress  and  talk  at  once  mark  them  out  as  agricul- 
tural. They  have  come  in  on  foot  from  distant 
farms  for  a  supply  of  goods,  and  will  return  heavily 
laden.  No  town-bred  woman,  however  poor,  would 
dress  so  plainly  as  these  cottage  matrons.  Their 
daughters  who  go  with  them  have  caught  the  finery 
of  the  town,  and  they  do  not  mean  to  stay  in  the 
cottage. 

There  is  a  bleak  arable  field,  on  somewhat 
elevated  ground,  not  very  far  from  the  same  old 
barn.  In  the  corner  of  this  field  for  the  last  two 
or  three  years  a  great  pit  of  roots  has  been  made  : 
that  is,  the  roots  are  piled  together  and  covered 
with  straw  and  earth.  When  this  mound  is 
opened  in  the  early  spring,  a  stout,  elderly  woman 
takes  her  seat  beside  it,  bill-hook  in  hand,  and  there 
she  sits  the  day  through,  trimming  the  roots  one  by 
one,  and  casting  those  that  she  has  prepared  aside 
ready  to  be  carted  away  to  the  cattle. 

A  hurdle  or  two  propped  up  with  stakes,  and 
against  which  some  of  the  straw  from  a  mound 
has  been  thrown,  keeps  off  some  of  the  wind. 
But  the  easterly  breezes  sweeping  over  the  bare 
upland  must  rush  round  and  over  that  slight  bul- 
wark with  force  but  little  broken.  Holding  the 
root  in  the  left  hand,  she  turns  it  round  and  slashes 
—  104  — 


A    BARN 


off  the  projections  with  quick  blows,  which  seem 
to  only  just  miss  her  ringers,  laughing  and  talking 
the  while  with  two  children  who  have  brought  her 
some  refreshment,  and  who  roll  and  tumble  and 
play  about  her.  The  scene  might  be  bodily  re- 
moved and  set  down  a  hundred  miles  away,  in  the 
midst  of  a  western  county,  and  would  there  be 
perfectly  at  one  with  the  surroundings. 

Here,  as  she  sits  and  chops,  the  east  wind  brings 
the  boom  of  trains  continually  rolling  over  an  iron 
bridge  to  and  from  the  metropolis.  She  was  there 
two  successive  seasons  to  my  knowledge;  she,  too, 
had  the  stamp  of  the  land  upon  her. 

The  broad  sward  where  the  white-haired  shep- 
herd so  often  stands  watching  his  sheep  feeding 
along  to  this  field,  is  decked  in  summer  with  many 
flowers.  By  the  hedge  the  agrimony  frequently 
lifts  its  long  stem,  surrounded  with  small  yellow 
petals.  One  day  towards  autumn  I  noticed  a  man 
looking  along  a  hedge,  and  found  that  he  was 
gathering  this  plant.  He  had  a  small  armful  of 
the  straggling  stalks,  from  which  the  flowers  were 
then  fading.  The  herb  once  had  a  medicinal 
reputation,  and,  curious  to  know  if  it  was  still 
remembered,  I  asked  him  the  name  of  the  herb, 
and  what  it  was  for.  He  replied  that  it  was 
agrimony  :  "  We  makes  tea  of  it,  and  it  is  good 
for  the  flesh,"  or,  as  he  pronounced  it,  "fleysh." 
—  105  — 


WHEATFIELDS 


^HE  cornfields  immediately  without  Lon- 
don on  the  southern  side  are  among 
the  first  to  be  reaped.  Regular  as  if 


wheat  shows  the  slope  of  the  ground,  correspond- 
ing to  it,  so  that  the  glance  travels  swiftly  and 
unchecked  across  the  fields.  They  scarce  seem 
divided,  for  the  yellow  ears  on  either  side  rise  as 
high  as  the  cropped  hedge  between. 

Red  spots,  like  larger  poppies,  now  appear  above 
and  now  dive  down  again  beneath  the  golden  sur- 
face. These  are  the  red  caps  worn  by  some  of 
the  reapers ;  some  of  the  girls,  too,  have  a  red 
scarf  across  the  shoulder  or  round  the  waist.  By 
instinctive  sympathy  the  heat  of  summer  requires 
the  contrast  of  brilliant  hues,  of  scarlet  and  gold, 
of  poppy  and  wheat. 

A  girl,  as  she  rises  from  her  stooping  position, 
turns  a  face,  brown,  as  if  stained  with  walnut  juice, 
towards  me,  the  plain  gold  ring  in  her  brown  ear 
gleams,  so,  too,  the  rings  on  her  finger,  nearly 
black  from  the  sun,  but  her  dark  eyes  scarcely  pause 
—  1 06  — 


WHEATFIELDS 


a  second  on  a  stranger.  She  is  too  busy,  her  tanned 
fingers  are  at  work  again  gathering  up  the  cut 
wheat.  This  is  no  gentle  labour, but  "hard  hand- 
play,"  like  that  in  the  battle  of  the  olden  time  sung 
by  the  Saxon  poet. 

The  ceaseless  stroke  of  the  reaping-hook  falls  on 
the  ranks  of  the  corn  :  the  corn  yields,  but  only 
inch  by  inch.  If  the  burning  sun,  or  thirst,  or 
weariness  forces  the  reaper  to  rest,  the  fight  too 
stays,  the  ranks  do  not  retreat,  and  victory  is  only 
won  by  countless  blows.  The  boom  of  a  bridge 
as  a  train  rolls  over  the  iron  girders  resounds,  and 
the  brazen  dome  on  the  locomotive  is  visible  for  a 
moment  as  it  passes  across  the  valley.  But  no  one 
heeds  it — the  train  goes  on  its  way  to  the  great 
city,  the  reapers  abide  by  their  labour.  Men  and 
women,  lads  and  girls,  some  mere  children,  judged 
by  their  stature,  are  plunged  as  it  were  in  the 
wheat. 

The  few  that  wear  bright  colours  are  seen  :  the 
many  who  do  not  are  unnoticed.  Perhaps  the 
dusky  girl  here  with  the  red  scarf  may  have  some 
strain  of  the  gipsy,  some  far-off  reminiscence  of 
the  sunlit  East  which  caused  her  to  wind  it  about 
her.  The  sheaf  grows  under  her  fingers,  it  is 
bound  about  with  a  girdle  of  twisted  stalks,  in 
which  mingle  the  green  bine  of  convolvulus  and 
the  pink-streaked  bells  that  must  fade. 


^«S!    NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 


Heat  comes  down  from  above;  heat  comes  up 
from  beneath,  from  the  dry,  white  earth,  from  the 
rows  of  stubble,  as  if  emitted  by  the  endless  tubes 
of  cut  stalks  pointing  upwards.  Wheat  is  a  plant 
of  the  sun  :  it  loves  the  heat,  and  heat  crackles  in 
the  rustle  of  the  straw.  The  pimpernels  above 
which  the  hook  passed  are  wide  open  :  the  larger 
white  convolvulus  trumpets  droop  languidly  on  the 
low  hedge  :  the  distant  hills  are  dim  with  the  va- 
pour of  heat  ;  the  very  clouds  which  stay  motion- 
less in  the  sky  reflect  a  yet  more  brilliant  light  from 
their  white  edges.  Is  there  no  shadow  ? 

There  is  no  tree  in  the  field,  and  the  low  hedge 
can  shelter  nothing;  but  bordering  the  next,  on 
rather  higher  ground,  is  an  ash  copse,  with  some 
few  spruce  firs.  Resting  on  a  rail  in  the  shadow 
of  these  firs,  a  light  air  now  and  again  draws  along 
beside  the  nut-tree  bushes  of  the  hedge ;  the  cooler 
atmosphere  of  the  shadow,  perhaps,  causes  it.  Faint 
as  it  is,  it  sways  the  heavy-laden  brome  grass,  but 
is  not  strong  enough  to  lift  a  ball  of  thistledown 
from  the  bennets  among  which  it  is  entangled. 

How  swiftly  the  much-desired  summer  comes 
upon  us !  Even  with  the  reapers  at  work  before 
one  it  is  difficult  to  realise  that  it  has  not  only 
come,  but  will  soon  be  passing  away.  Sweet  sum- 
mer is  but  just  long  enough  for  the  happy  loves 
of  the  larks.  It  seems  but  yesterday,  it  is  really 
_  108  — 


WHEATFIELDS 

more  than  five  months  since,  that,  leaning  against 
the  gate  there,  I  watched  a  lark  and  his  affianced 
on  the  ground  among  the  grey  stubble  of  last  year 
still  standing. 

His  crest  was  high  and  his  form  upright,  he  ran 
a  little  way  and  then  sang,  went  on  again  and  sang 
again  to  his  love,  moving  parallel  with  him.  Then 
passing  from  the  old  dead  stubble  to  fresh-turned 
furrows,  still  they  went  side  by  side,  now  down  in 
the  valley  between  the  clods,  now  mounting  the 
ridges,  but  always  together,  always  with  song  and 
joy,  till  I  lost  them  across  the  brown  earth.  But 
even  then  from  time  to  time  came  the  sweet  voice, 
full  of  hope  in  coming  summer. 

The  day  declined,  and  from  the  clear,  cold  sky 
of  March  the  moon  looked  down,  gleaming  on  the 
smooth  planed  furrow  where  the  plough  had  passed. 
Scarce  had  she  faded  in  the  dawn  ere  the  lark  sang 
again,  high  in  the  morning  sky.  The  evenings 
became  dark  ;  still  he  rose  above  the  shadows  and 
the  dusky  earth,  and  his  song  fell  from  the  bosom 
of  the  night.  With  full  untiring  choir  the  joyous 
host  heralded  the  birth  of  the  corn  ;  the  slender, 
forceless  seed  leaves  which  came  gently  up  till  they 
had  risen  above  the  proud  crests  of  the  lovers. 

Time  advanced,  and  the  bare  mounds  about  the 
field,  carefully  cleaned  by  the  husbandman,  were 
covered  again  with  wild  herbs  and  plants,  like  a 
—  109  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

fringe  to  a  garment  of  pure  green.  Parsley  and 
"  gix,"  and  clogvveed,  and  sauce-alone,  whose  white 
flowers  smell  of  garlic  if  crushed  in  the  fingers, 
came  up  along  the  hedge;  by  the  gateway  from  the 
bare  trodden  earth  appeared  the  shepherd's  purse ; 
small  must  be  the  coin  to  go  in  its  seed  capsule,  and 
therefore  it  was  so  called  with  grim  and  truthful 
humour,  for  the  shepherd,  hard  as  is  his  work,  facing 
wind  and  weather,  carries  home  but  little  money. 

Yellow  charlock  shot  up  faster  and  shone  bright 
above  the  corn ;  the  oaks  showered  down  their 
green  flowers  like  moss  upon  the  ground  ;  the  tree 
pipits  sang  on  the  branches  and  descending  to  the 
wheat.  The  rusty  chain-harrow,  lying  inside  the 
gate,  all  tangled  together,  was  concealed  with 
grasses.  Yonder  the  magpies  fluttered  over  the 
beans,  among  which  they  are  always  searching  in 
spring  ;  blackbirds,  too,  are  fond  of  a  beanfield. 

Time  advanced  again,  and  afar  on  the  slope 
bright  yellow  mustard  flowered,  a  hill  of  yellow 
behind  the  elms.  The  luxuriant  purple  of  trifo- 
lium,  acres  of  rich  colour,  glowed  in  the  sunlight. 
There  was  a  scent  of  flowering  beans,  the  vetches 
were  in  flower,  and  the  peas  which  clung  together 
for  support  —  the  stalk  of  the  pea  goes  through 
the  leaf  as  a  painter  thrusts  his  thumb  through 
his  palette.  Under  the  edge  of  the  footpath 
through  the  wheat  a  wild  pansy  blooms. 


WHEATFIELDS 

Standing  in  the  gateway  beneath  the  shelter  of 
the  elms  as  the  clouds  come  over,  it  is  pleasant  to 
hear  the  cool  refreshing  rain  come  softly  down  ; 
the  green  wheat  drinks  it  as  it  falls,  so  that  hardly 
a  drop  reaches  the  ground,  and  to-morrow  it  will 
be  as  dry  as  ever.  Wood-pigeons  call  from 
the  hedges,  and  blackbirds  whistle  in  the  trees ; 
the  sweet  delicious  rain  refreshes  them  as  it  does 
the  corn. 

Thunder  mutters  in  the  distance,  and  the  electric 
atmosphere  rapidly  draws  the  wheat  up  higher. 
A  few  days'  sunshine  and  the  first  wheatear  appears. 
Very  likely  there  are  others  near,  but  standing 
with  their  hood  of  green  leaf  towards  you,  and 
therefore  hidden.  As  the  wheat  comes  into  ear,  it 
is  garlanded  about  with  hedges  in  full  flower. 

It  is  midsummer,  and  midsummer,  like  a  bride, 
is  decked  in  white.  On  the  high-reaching  briars 
white  June  roses ;  white  flowers  on  the  lowly 
brambles ;  broad  white  umbels  of  elder  in  the 
corner,  and  white  cornels  blooming  under  the  elm ; 
honeysuckle  hanging  creamy  white  coronals  round 
the  ash  boughs  ;  white  meadow-sweet  flowering  on 
the  shore  of  the  ditch ;  white  clover,  too,  beside 
the  gateway.  As  spring  is  azure  and  purple,  so 
midsummer  is  white,  and  autumn  golden.  Thus 
the  coming  out  of  the  wheat  into  ear  is  marked  and 
welcomed  with  the  purest  colour. 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     asE^a: 


But  these,  though  the  most  prominent  along  the 
hedge,  are  not  the  only  flowers ;  the  prevalent 
white  is  embroidered  with  other  hues.  The  brown 
feathers  of  a  few  reeds  growing  where  the  furrows 
empty  the  showers  into  the  ditch,  wave  above  the 
corn.  Among  the  leaves  of  mallow  its  mauve 
petals  are  sheltered  from  the  sun.  On  slender 
stalks  the  yellow  vetchling  blooms,  reaching  am- 
bitiously as  tall  as  the  lowest  of  the  brambles. 
Bird's-foot  lotus,  with  red  claws,  is  overtopped  by 
the  grasses. 

The  elm  has  a  fresh  green  —  it  has  put  forth  its 
second  or  midsummer  shoot ;  the  young  leaves  of 
the  aspen  are  white,  and  the  tree  as  the  wind 
touches  it  seems  to  turn  grey.  The  furrows  run 
to  the  ditch  under  the  reeds,  the  ditch  declines  to  a 
little  streamlet  which  winds  all  hidden  by  willow- 
herb  and  rush  and  flag,  a  mere  trickle  of  water 
under  brooklime,  away  at  the  feet  of  the  corn.  In 
the  shadow,  deep  down  beneath  the  crumbling 
bank  which  is  only  held  up  by  the  roots  of  the 
grasses,  is  a  forget-me-not,  with  a  tiny  circlet  of 
yellow  in  the  centre  of  its  petals. 

The  coming  of  the  ears  of  wheat  forms  an  era 
and  a  date,  a  fixed  point  in  the  story  of  the  summer. 
It  is  then  that,  soon  after  dawn,  the  clear  sky 
assumes  the  delicate  and  yet  luscious  purple  which 
seems  to  shine  through  the  usual  atmosphere,  as  if 


WHE  ATFIELDS 


its  former  blue  became  translucent,  and  an  inner 
and  ethereal  light  of  colour  was  shown.  As  the 
sun  rises  higher  the  brilliance  of  his  rays  over- 
powers it,  and  even  at  midsummer  it  is  but  rarely 
seen. 

The  morning  sky  is  often,  too,  charged  with 
saffron,  or  the  blue  is  clear,  but  pale,  and  the  sun- 
rise might  be  watched  for  many  mornings  without 
the  appearance  of  this  exquisite  hue.  Once  seen, 
it  will  ever  be  remembered.  Upon  the  Downs  in 
early  autumn,  as  the  vapours  clear  away,  the  same 
colour  occasionally  gleams  from  the  narrow  open- 
ings of  blue  sky.  But  at  midsummer,  above  the 
opening  wheatears,  the  heaven  from  the  east  to 
the  zenith  is  flushed  with  it. 

At  noonday,  as  the  light  breeze  comes  over,  the 
wheat  rustles  the  more  because  the  stalks  are 
stiffening  and  swing  from  side  to  side  from  the 
root  instead  of  yielding  up  the  stem.  Stay  now  at 
every  gateway  and  lean  over  while  the  midsummer 
hum  sounds  above.  It  is  a  peculiar  sound,  not 
like  the  querulous  buzz  of  the  honey,  nor  the 
drone  of  the  humble-bee,  but  a  sharp  ringing  reso- 
nance like  that  of  a  tuning-fork.  Sometimes,  in 
the  far-away  country  where  it  is  often  much  louder, 
the  folk  think  it  has  a  threatening  note. 

Here  the  barley  has  taken  a  different  tint  now 
the  beard  is  out ;  here  the  oats  are  straggling  forth 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

from  their  sheath  ;  here  a  pungent  odour  of  mus- 
tard in  flower  comes  on  the  air ;  there  a  poppy 
faints  with  broad  petals  flung  back  and  drooping, 
unable  to  uphold  its  gorgeous  robes.  The  flower 
of  the  field  pea,  here  again,  would  make  a  model 
for  a  lady's  hat ;  so  would  a  butterfly  with  closed 
wings  on  the  verge  of  a  leaf;  so  would  the  broom 
blossom,  or  the  pink  flower  of  the  restharrow. 
This  hairy  caterpillar,  creeping  along  the  hawthorn, 
which,  if  touched,  immediately  coils  itself  in  a  ring, 
very  recently  was  thought  a  charm  in  distant 
country  places  for  some  diseases  of  childhood,  if 
hung  about  the  neck.  Hedge  mustard,  yellow  and 
ragged  and  dusty,  stands  by  the  gateway. 

In  the  evening,  as  the  dew  gathers  on  the  grass, 
which  feels  cooler  to  the  hand  some  time  before 
an  actual  deposit,  the  clover  and  vetches  close  their 
leaves  —  the  signal  the  hares  have  been  waiting  for 
to  venture  from  the  sides  of  the  fields  where  they 
have  been  cautiously  roaming,  and  take  bolder 
strolls  across  the  open  and  along  the  lanes.  The 
aspens  rustle  louder  in  the  stillness  of  the  evening  ; 
their  leaves  not  only  sway  to  and  fro,  but  semi- 
rotate  upon  the  stalks,  which  causes  their  scintil- 
lating appearance.  The  stars  presently  shine  from 
the  pale  blue  sky,  and  the  wheat  shimmers  dimly 
white  beneath  them. 

So    time    advances    till    to-day,    watching    the 


WHEATFIELDS 

reapers  from  the  shadow  of  the  copse,  it  seems  as 
if  within  that  golden  expanse  there  must  be  some- 
thing hidden,  could  you  but  rush  in  quickly  and 
seize  it  —  some  treasure  of  the  sunshine ;  and 
there  is  a  treasure,  the  treasure  of  life  stored  in 
those  little  grains,  the  slow  product  of  the  sun. 
But  it  cannot  be  grasped  in  an  impatient  moment 
—  it  must  be  gathered  with  labour.  I  have 
threshed  out  in  my  hand  three  ears  of  the  ripe 
wheat  :  how  many  foot-pounds  of  human  energy 
do  these  few  light  grains  represent  ? 

The  roof  of  the  Crystal  Palace  yonder  gleams 
and  sparkles  this  afternoon  as  if  it  really  were 
crystal  under  the  bright  rays.  But  it  was  con- 
cealed by  mist  when  the  ploughs  in  the  months 
gone  by  were  guided  in  these  furrows  by  men, 
hard  of  feature  and  of  hand,  stooping  to  their  toil. 
The  piercing  east  wind  scattered  the  dust  in  clouds, 
looking  at  a  distance  like  small  rain  across  the 
field,  when  grey-coated  men,  grey  too  of  beard, 
followed  the  red  drill  to  and  fro. 

How  many  times  the  horses  stayed  in  this 
sheltered  corner  while  the  ploughmen  and  their 
lads  ate  their  crusts  !  How  many  times  the  farmer 
and  the  bailiff,  with  hands  behind  their  backs,  con- 
sidering, walked  along  the  hedge  taking  counsel 
of  the  earth  if  they  had  done  right !  How  many 
times  hard  gold  and  silver  was  paid  over  at  the 
—  115  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

farmer's  door  for  labour  while  yet  the  plant  was 
green  ;  how  many  considering  cups  of  ale  were 
emptied  in  planning  out  the  future  harvest  ! 

Now  it  is  come,  and  still  more  labour —  look  at 
the  reapers  yonder  —  and  after  that  more  time  and 
more  labour  before  the  sacks  go  to  the  market. 
Hard  toil  and  hard  fare  :  the  bread  which  the  reapers 
have  brought  with  them  for  their  luncheon  is  hard 
and  dry,  the  heat  has  dried  it  like  a  chip.  In  the 
corner  of  the  field  the  women  have  gathered  some 
sticks  and  lit  a  fire  — the  flame  is  scarce  seen  in 
the  sunlight,  and  the  sticks  seem  eaten  away  as 
they  burn  by  some  invisible  power.  They  are 
boiling  a  kettle,  and  their  bread,  too,  which  they 
will  soak  in  the  tea,  is  dry  and  chip-like.  Aside, 
on  the  ground  by  the  hedge,  is  a  handkerchief  tied 
at  the  corners,  with  a  few  mushrooms  in  it. 

The  scented  clover  field  —  the  white  campions 
dot  it  here  and  there  —  yields  a  rich,  nectarous 
food  for  ten  thousand  bees,  whose  hum  comes 
together  with  its  odour  on  the  air.  But  these  men 
and  women  and  children  ceaselessly  toiling  know 
no  such  sweets ;  their  food  is  as  hard  as  their 
labour.  How  many  foot-pounds,  then,  of  human 
energy  do  these  grains  in  my  hand  represent  ?  Do 
they  not  in  their  little  compass  contain  the  poten- 
tialities, the  past  and  the  future,  of  human  life 
itself? 

— 116  — 


W  HE  ATFIELD  S 


Another  train  booms,  across  the  iron  bridge  in 
the  hollow.  In  a  few  hours  now  the  carriages 
will  be  crowded  with  men  hastening  home  from 
their  toil  in  the  City.  The  narrow  streak  of  sun- 
shine which  day  by  day  falls  for  a  little  while  upon 
the  office  floor,  yellowed  by  the  dingy  pane,  is  all, 
perhaps,  to  remind  them  of  the  sun  and  sky,  of  the 
forces  of  nature  ;  and  that  little  is  unnoticed.  The 
pressure  of  business  is  so  severe  in  these  later  days 
that  in  the  hurry  and  excitement  it  is  not  wonder- 
ful many  should  forget  that  the  world  is  not  com- 
prised in  the  court  of  a  City  thoroughfare. 

Rapt  and  absorbed  in  discount  and  dollars,  in 
bills  and  merchandise,  the  over-strung  mind  deems 
itself  all  —  the  body  is  forgotten,  the  physical  body, 
which  is  subject  to  growth  and  change,  just  as  the 
plants  and  the  very  grass  of  the  field.  But  there 
is  a  subtle  connection  between  the  physical  man 
and  the  great  nature  which  comes  pressing  up  so 
closely  to  the  metropolis.  He  still  depends  in  the 
nineteenth  century,  as  in  the  dim  ages  before  the 
Pyramids,  upon  this  tiny  yellow  grain  here,  rubbed 
out  from  the  ear  of  wheat.  The  clever  mechanism 
of  the  locomotive  which  bears  him  to  and  fro, 
week  after  week  and  month  after  month,  from 
home  to  office  and  from  office  home,  has  not 
rendered  him  in  the  least  degree  independent  of 
this. 

—  117  — 


»--^ar     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

But  it  is  no  wonder  that  these  things  are  for- 
gotten in  the  daily  struggle  of  London.  And  if  the 
merchant  spares  an  abstracted  glance  from  the 
morning  or  evening  newspaper  out  upon  the  fields 
from  the  carriage  window,  the  furrows  of  the  field 
can  have  but  little  meaning.  Each  looks  to  him 
exactly  alike.  To  the  farmers  and  the  labourer 
such  and  such  a  furrow  marks  an  acre  and  has  its 
bearing,  but  to  the  passing  glance  it  is  not  so. 
The  work  in  the  field  is  so  slow  ;  the  passenger  by 
rail  sees,  as  it  seems  to  him,  nothing  going  on ;  the 
corn  may  sow  itself  almost  for  all  that  is  note- 
worthy in  apparent  labour. 

Thus  it  happens  that,  although  the  cornfields  and 
the  meadows  come  so  closely  up  to  the  offices 
and  warehouses  of  mighty  London,  there  is  a  line 
and  mark  in  the  minds  of  men  between  them;  the 
man  of  merchandise  does  not  see  what  the  man 
of  the  field  sees,  though  both  may  pass  the  same 
acres  every  morning.  It  is  inevitable  that  it  should 
be  so.  It  is  easy  in  London  to  forget  that  it  is 
midsummer,  till,  going  some  day  into  Covent- 
garden  Market,  you  see  baskets  of  the  cornflower, 
or  blue-bottle  as  it  is  called  in  the  country,  ticketed 
"  Corinne  "  and  offered  for  sale.  The  lovely  azure 
of  the  flower  recalls  the  scene  where  it  was  first 
gathered  long  since  at  the  edge  of  the  wheat. 

By  the  copse  here  now  the  teazles  lift  their  spiny 
_n8  — 


WHE  ATFIELDS 


heads  high  in  the  hedge,  the  young  nuts  are 
browning,  the  wild  mints  flowering  on  the  shores 
of  the  ditch,  and  the  reapers  are  cutting  ceaselessly 
at  the  ripe  corn.  The  larks  have  brought  their 
loves  to  a  happy  conclusion.  Besides  them,  the 
wheat  in  its  day  has  sheltered  many  other  creatures 
—  both  animals  and  birds. 

Hares  raced  about  it  in  the  spring,  and  even  in 
the  May  sunshine  might  be  seen  rambling  over  the 
slopes.  As  it  grew  higher  it  hid  the  leverets  and 
the  partridge  chicks.  Toll  has  been  taken  by 
rook,  and  sparrow,  and  pigeon.  Enemies,  too, 
have  assailed  it ;  the  daring  couch  invaded  it,  the 
bindweed  climbed  up  the  stalk,  the  storm  rushed 
along  and  beat  it  down.  Yet  it  triumphed,  and 
to-day  the  full  sheaves  lean  against  each  other. 


—  119  — 


THE    CROWS 


N  one  side  of  the  road  immediately 
after  quitting  the  suburb  there  is  a 
small  cover  of  furze.  The  spines 
are  now  somewhat  browned  by  the 
summer  heats,  and  the  fern  which  grows  about 
every  bush  trembles  on  the  balance  of  colour  be- 
tween green  and  yellow.  Soon,  too,  the  tall  wiry 
grass  will  take  a  warm  brown  tint,  which  gradually 
pales  as  the  autumn  passes  into  winter,  and  finally 
bleaches  to  greyish  white. 

Looking  into  the  furze  from  the  footpath,  there 
are  purple  traces  here  and  there  at  the  edge  of  the 
fern  where  the  heath-bells  hang.  On  a  furze 
branch,  which  projects  above  the  rest,  a  furze  chat 
perches,  with  yellow  blossom  above  and  beneath 
him.  Rushes  mark  the  margin  of  small  pools  and 
marshy  spots,  so  overhung  with  brambles  and  birch 
branches,  and  so  closely  surrounded  by  gorse,  that 
they  would  not  otherwise  be  noticed. 

But  the  thick  growth  of  rushes  intimates  that 
water  is  near,  and  upon  parting  the  bushes  a  little 


THE    CROWS 

may  be  seen,  all  that  has  escaped  evaporation  in 
the  shade.  P'rorn  one  of  these  marshy  spots  I 
once  —  and  once  only  —  observed  a  snipe  rise, 
and  after  wheeling  round  return  and  settle  by 
another.  As  the  wiry  grass  becomes  paler  with 
the  fall  of  the  year,  the  rushes,  on  the  contrary, 
from  green  become  faintly  yellow,  and  presently 
brownish.  Grey  grass  and  brown  rushes,  dark 
furze,  and  fern  almost  copper  in  hue  from  frost, 
when  lit  up  by  a  gleam  of  winter  sunshine,  form  a 
pleasant  breadth  of  warm  colour  in  the  midst  of 
bare  fields. 

After  continuous  showers  in  spring,  lizards  are 
often  found  in  the  adjacent  gardens,  their  dark 
backs  as  they  crawl  over  the  patches  being  almost 
exactly  the  tint  of  the  moist  earth.  If  touched, 
the  tail  is  immediately  coiled,  the  body  stiffens,  and 
the  creature  appears  dead.  They  are  popularly 
supposed  to  come  from  the  furze,  which  is  also 
believed  to  shelter  adders. 

There  is,  indeed,  scarcely  a  cover  in  Surrey  and 
Kent  which  is  not  said  to  have  its  adders  ;  the 
gardeners  employed  at  villas  close  to  the  metropolis 
occasionally  raise  an  alarm,  and  profess  to  have 
seen  a  viper  in  the  shrubberies,  or  the  ivy,  or  under 
an  old  piece  of  bast.  Since  so  few  can  distinguish 
at  a  glance  between  the  common  snake  and  the 
adder  it  is  as  well  not  to  press  too  closely  upon  any 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

reptile  that  may  chance  to  be  heard  rustling  in  the 
grass,  and  to  strike  tussocks  with  the  walking-stick 
before  sitting  down  to  rest,  for  the  adder  is  only 
dangerous  when  unexpectedly  encountered. 

In  the  roadside  ditch  by  the  furze  the  figwort 
grows,  easily  known  by  its  coarse  square  stem  ;  and 
the  woody  bines,  if  so  they  may  be  called,  or  stalks 
of  bitter-sweet,  remain  all  the  winter  standing  in 
the  hawthorn  hedge.  The  first  frosts,  on  the 
other  hand,  shrivel  the  bines  of  white  bryony, 
which  part  and  hang  separated,  and  in  the  spring  a 
fresh  bine  pushes  up  with  greyish  green  leaves,  and 
tendrils  feeling  for  support.  It  is  often  observed 
that  the  tendrils  of  this  bryony  coil  both  ways,  with 
and  against  the  sun. 

But  it  must  be  remembered  in  looking  for  this 
that  it  is  the  same  tendril  which  should  be  ex- 
amined, and  not  two  different  ones.  It  will  then 
be  seen  that  the  tendril,  after  forming  a  spiral  one 
way,  lengthens  out  like  a  tiny  green  wax  taper,  and 
afterwards  turns  the  other.  Sometimes  it  resumes 
the  original  turn  before  reaching  a  branch  to  cling 
to,  and  may  thus  be  said  to  have  revolved  in  three 
directions.  The  dusty  celandine  grows  under  the 
bushes  ;  and  its  light  green  leaves  seem  to  retain 
the  white  dust  from  the  road.  Ground  ivy  creeps 
everywhere  over  the  banks,  and  covers  the  barest 
spot.  In  April  its  flowers,  though  much  concealed 


THE    CROWS 


by  leaves,  dot  the  sides  of  the  ditches  with  colour, 
like  the  purple  tint  that  lurks  in  the  amethyst. 

A  small  black  patch  marks  the  site  of  one  of 
those  gorse  fires  which  are  so  common  in  Surrey. 
This  was  extinguished  before  it  could  spread  be- 
yond a  few  bushes.  The  crooked  stems  remain 
black  as  charcoal,  too  much  burnt  to  recover,  and 
in  the  centre  a  young  birch,  scorched  by  the  flames, 
stands  leafless.  This  barren  birch,  bare  of  foliage 
and  apparently  unattractive,  is  the  favourite  resort 
of  yellowhammers.  Perching  on  a  branch  towards 
evening,  a  yellowhammer  will  often  sit  and  sing 
by  the  hour  together,  as  if  preferring  to  be  clear 
of  leafy  sprays. 

The  somewhat  dingy  hue  of  many  trees  as  the 
summer  begins  to  wane  is  caused  not  only  by  the 
fading  of  the  green,  but  by  the  appearance  of  spots 
upon  the  leaves,  as  may  be  seen  on  those  birches 
which  grow  among  the  furze.  But  in  spring  and 
early  summer  their  fresh  light  green  contrasts  with 
masses  of  bright  yellow  gorse  bloom.  Just  before 
then  —  just  as  the  first  leaves  are  opening  —  the 
chiff-chaffs  come. 

The  first  spring  I  had  any  knowledge  of  this 
spot  was  mild,  and  had  been  preceded  by  mild 
seasons.  The  chiff-chaffs  arrived  all  at  once,  as  it 
seemed,  in  a  bevy,  and  took  possession  of  every 
birch  about  the  furze,  calling  incessantly  with 
—  123  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

might  and  main.  The  willow-wrens  were  nearly 
as  numerous.  All  the  gorse  seemed  full  of  them 
for  a  few  days.  Then  by  degrees  they  gradually 
spread  abroad,  and  dispersed  among  the  hedges. 

But  in  the  following  springs  nothing  of  the  kind 
occurred.  Chiff-chaff  and  willow-wren  came  as 
usual,  but  they  did  not  arrive  in  a  crowd  at  once. 
This  may  have  been  owing  to  the  flight  going 
elsewhere,  or  possibly  the  flock  were  diminished 
by  failure  to  rear  the  young  broods  in  so  drenching  a 
season  as  1879,  which  would  explain  the  difference 
observed  next  spring.  There  was  no  scarcity,  but 
there  was  a  lack  of  the  bustle  and  excitement  and 
flood  of  song  that  accompanied  their  advent  two 
years  before. 

Upon  a  piece  of  waste  land  at  the  corner  of  the 
furze  a  very  large  cinder  and  dust  heap  was  made  by 
carting  refuse  there  from  the  neighbouring  suburb. 
During  the  sharp  and  continued  frosts  of  the  winter 
this  dust-heap  was  the  resort  of  almost  every  species 
of  bird  —  sparrows,  starlings,  greenfinches,  and 
rooks  searching  for  any  stray  morsels  of  food. 
Some  bird-catchers  soon  noticed  this  concourse, 
and  spread  their  nets  among  the  adjacent  rushes, 
but  fortunately  with  little  success. 

I  say  fortunately,  not  because  I  fear  the  extinc- 
tion of  small  birds,  but  because  of  the  miserable 
fate  that  awaits  the  captive.  Far  better  for  the 
—124— 


THE    CROWS 

frightened  little  creature  to  have  its  neck  at  once 
twisted  and  to  die  than  to  languish  in  cages  hardly 
large  enough  for  it  to  turn  in  behind  the  dirty 
panes  of  the  windows  in  the  Seven  Dials. 

The  happy  greenfinch  —  I  use  the  term  of  fore- 
thought, for  the  greenfinch  seems  one  of  the  very 
happiest  of  birds  in  the  hedges  —  accustomed  dur- 
ing all  its  brief  existence  to  wander  in  company 
with  friends  from  bush  to  bush  and  tree  to  tree, 
must  literally  pine  its  heart  out.  Or  it  may  be 
streaked  with  bright  paint  and  passed  on  some  un- 
wary person  for  a  Java  sparrow  or  a  "  blood-heart." 

The  little  boy  who  dares  to  take  a  bird's  nest 
is  occasionally  fined  and  severely  reproved.  The 
ruffian-like  crew  who  go  forth  into  the  pastures 
and  lanes  about  London,  snaring  and  netting  full- 
grown  birds  by  the  score,  are  permitted  to  ply  their 
trade  unchecked.  I  mean  to  say  that  there  is  no 
comparison  between  the  two  things.  An  egg  has 
not  yet  advanced  to  consciousness  or  feeling :  the 
old  birds,  if  their  nest  is  taken,  frequently  build 
another.  The  lad  has  to  hunt  for  the  nest,  to 
climb  for  it  or  push  through  thorns,  and  may  be 
pricked  by  brambles  and  stung  by  nettles.  In  a 
degree  there  is  something  to  him  approaching  to 
sport  in  nesting. 

But  these  bird-catchers  simply  stand  by  the  ditch 
with  their  hands  in  their  pockets  sucking  a  stale 
—  125  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

pipe.  They  would  rather  lounge  there  in  the  bit- 
terest northeast  wind  that  ever  blew  than  do  a 
single  hour's  honest  work.  Blackguard  is  written 
in  their  faces.  The  poacher  needs  some  courage, 
at  least ;  he  knows  a  penalty  awaits  detection. 
These  fellows  have  no  idea  of  sport,  no  courage, 
and  no  skill,  for  their  tricks  are  simplicity  itself,  nor 
have  they  the  pretence  of  utility,  for  they  do  not 
catch  birds  for  the  good  of  the  farmers  or  the 
market  gardeners,  but  merely  that  they  may  booze 
without  working  for  the  means. 

Pity  it  is  that  any  one  can  be  found  to  purchase 
the  product  of  their  brutality.  No  one  would  do 
so  could  they  but  realise  the  difference  to  the  cap- 
tive upon  which  they  are  lavishing  their  mistaken 
love,  between  the  cage,  the  alternately  hot  and 
cold  room  (as  the  fire  goes  out  at  night),  the  close 
atmosphere  and  fumes  that  lurk  near  the  ceiling, 
and  the  open  air  and  freedom  to  which  it  was  born. 

The  rooks  only  came  to  the  dust-heap  in  hard 
weather,  and  ceased  to  visit  it  so  soon  as  the  ground 
relaxed  and  the  ploughs  began  to  move.  But  a 
couple  of  crows  looked  over  the  refuse  once  during 
the  day  for  months  till  men  came  to  sift  the  cinders. 
These  crows  are  permanent  residents.  Their  ren- 
dezvous is  a  copse,  only  separated  from  the  furze 
by  the  highway. 

They  are  always  somewhere  near,  now  in  the 
—  126  — 


THE    CROWS 


ploughed  fields,  now  in  the  furze,  and  during  the 
severe  frosts  of  last  winter  in  the  road  itself,  so 
sharply  driven  by  hunger  as  to  rise  very  unwillingly 
on  the  approach  of  passengers.  A  meadow  opposite 
the  copse  is  one  of  their  favourite  resorts.  There  are 
anthills,  rushes,  and  other  indications  of  not  too  rich 
a  soil  in  this  meadow,  and  in  places  the  prickly  rest- 
harrow  grows  among  the  grass,  bearing  its  pink 
flower  in  summer.  Perhaps  the  coarse  grass  and 
poor  soil  are  productive  of  grubs  and  insects,  for  not 
only  the  crows,  but  the  rooks,  continually  visit  it. 

One  spring,  hearing  a  loud  chattering  in  the 
copse,  and  recognising  the  alarm  notes  of  the 
missel-thrush,  I  cautiously  crept  up  the  hedge,  and 
presently  found  three  crows  up  in  a  birch  tree, 
just  above  where  the  thrushes  were  calling.  The 
third  crow  —  probably  a  descendant  of  the  other 
two  —  had  joined  in  a  raid  upon  the  missel- 
thrushes'  brood.  Both  defenders  and  assailants 
were  in  a  high  state  of  excitement ;  the  thrushes 
screeching,  and  the  crows,  in  a  row  one  above  the 
other  on  a  branch,  moving  up  and  down  it  in  a 
restless  manner.  I  fear  they  had  succeeded  in 
their  purpose,  for  no  trace  of  the  young  birds  was 
visible. 

The  nest  of  the  missel-thrush  is  so  frequently 
singled  out  for  attack  by  crows  that  it  would  seem 
the  young  birds  must  possess  a  peculiar  and  at- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

tractive  flavour ;  or  is  it  because  they  are  large  ? 
There  are  more  crows  round  London  than  in  a  whole 
county,  where  the  absence  of  manufactures  and 
the  rural  quiet  would  seem  favourable  to  bird  life. 
The  reason,  of  course,  is  that  in  the  country  the 
crows  frequenting  woods  are  shot  and  kept  down 
as  much  as  possible  by  gamekeepers. 

In  the  immediate  environs  of  London  keepers 
are  not  about,  and  even  a  little  further  away  the 
land  is  held  by  many  small  owners,  and  game 
preservation  is  not  thought  of.  The  numerous 
pieces  of  waste  ground,  "  to  let  on  building  lease," 
the  excavated  ground,  where  rubbish  can  be  thrown, 
the  refuse  and  ash  heaps  —  these  are  the  haunts 
of  the  London  crow.  Suburban  railway  stations 
are  often  haunted  by  crows,  which  perch  on  the 
telegraph  wires  close  to  the  back  windows  of  the 
houses  that  abut  upon  the  metals.  There  they  sit, 
grave  and  undisturbed  by  the  noisy  engines  which 
pass  beneath  them. 

In  the  shrubberies  around  villa  gardens,  or  in  the 
hedges  of  the  small  paddocks  attached,  thrushes 
and  other  birds  sometimes  build  their  nests.  The 
children  of  the  household  watch  the  progress  of 
the  nest,  and  note  the  appearance  of  the  eggs  with 
delight.  Their  friends  of  larger  growth  visit  the 
spot  occasionally,  and  orders  are  given  that  the 
birds  shall  be  protected,  the  gardeners  become 


THE    CROWS 

gamekeepers,  and  the  lawn  or  shrubbery  is  guarded 
like  a  preserve.  Everything  goes  well  till  the 
young  birds  are  almost  ready  to  quit  the  nest, 
when  one  morning  they  are  missing. 

The  theft  is,  perhaps,  attributed  to  the  boys  of 
the  neighbourhood,  but  unjustly,  unless  plain  traces 
of  entry  are  visible.  It  is  either  cats  or  crows. 
The  cats  cannot  be  kept  out,  not  even  by  a  dog, 
for  they  watch  till  his  attention  is  otherwise  en- 
gaged. Food  is  not  so  much  the  object  as  the 
pleasure  of  destruction,  for  cats  will  kill  and  yet 
not  eat  their  victim.  The  crow  may  not  have 
been  seen  in  the  garden,  and  it  may  be  said  that 
he  could  not  have  known  of  the  nest  without 
looking  round  the  place.  But  the  crow  is  a  keen 
observer,  and  has  not  the  least  necessity  to  search 
for  the  nest. 

He  merely  keeps  a  watch  on  the  motions  of  the 
old  birds  of  the  place,  and  knows  at  once  by  their 
flight  being  so  continually  directed  to  one  spot  that 
there  their  treasure  lies.  He  and  his  companion 
may  come  very  early  in  the  morning  —  summer 
mornings  are  bright  as  noonday  long  before  the 
earliest  gardener  is  abroad  —  or  they  may  come  in 
the  dusk  of  the  evening.  Crows  are  not  so  par- 
ticular in  retiring  regularly  to  roost  as  the  rook. 

The  furze  and  copse  frequented  by  the  pair 
which  I  found  attacking  the  missel-thrushes  are 
9  — 129 — • 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     SEES 


situate  at  the  edge  of  extensive  arable  fields.  In 
these,  though  not  overlooked  by  gamekeepers,  there 
is  a  good  deal  of  game  which  is  preserved  by  the 
tenants  of  the  farms.  After  the  bitter  winter  and 
wet  summer  of  1879,  there  was  a  complaint,  too 
well  founded,  that  the  partridges  were  diminished 
in  numbers.  But  the  crows  were  not.  There 
were  as  many  of  them  as  ever.  When  there  were 
many  partridges,  the  loss  of  a  few  eggs  or  chicks 
was  not  so  important.  But  when  there  are  but 
few,  every  egg  or  chick  destroyed  retards  the  re- 
stocking of  the  fields. 

The  existence  of  so  many  crows  all  round 
London  is,  in  short,  a  constant  check  upon  the 
game.  The  belt  of  land  immediately  outside  the 
houses,  and  lying  between  them  and  the  plantations 
which  are  preserved,  is  the  crow's  reserve,  where 
he  hunts  in  security.  He  is  so  safe  that  he  has 
almost  lost  all  dread  of  man,  and  his  motions  can 
be  observed  without  trouble.  The  ash-heap  at 
tho  corner  of  the  furze,  besides  the  crows,  be- 
came the  resort  of  rats,  whose  holes  were  so  thick 
in  the  bank  as  to  form  quite  a  bury.  After  the 
rats  came  the  weasels. 

When  the  rats  were  most  numerous,  before  the 

ash-heap  was  sifted,  there  was  a  weasel  there  nearly 

every  day,  slipping  in  and   out  of  their  holes.      In 

the  depth  of  the  country  an  observer  might  walk 

—  130  — 


THE    CROWS 

some  considerable  distance  and  wait  about  for  hours 
without  seeing  a  weasel ;  but  here  by  the  side  of  a 
busy  suburban  road  there  were  plenty.  Professional 
rat-catchers  ferreted  the  bank  once  or  twice,  and 
rilled  their  iron  cages.  With  these  the  dogs  kept 
by  dog-fanciers  in  the  adjacent  suburb  were  prac- 
tised in  destroying  vermin  at  so  much  a  rat. 
Though  ferreted  and  hunted  down  by  the  weasels, 
the  rats  were  not  rooted  out,  but  remained  till  the 
ash-heap  was  sifted  and  no  fresh  refuse  deposited. 

In  one  place  among  the  gorse,  the  willows, 
birches,  and  thorn  bushes  make  a  thick  covert, 
which  is  adjacent  to  several  of  the  hidden  pools 
previously  mentioned.  Here  a  brook-sparrow  or 
sedge-reedling  takes  up  his  quarters  in  the  spring, 
and  chatters  on,  day  and  night,  through  the  sum- 
mer. Visitors  to  the  opera  and  playgoers  returning 
in  the  first  hours  of  the  morning  from  Covent- 
garden  or  Drury-lane  can  scarcely  fail  to  hear 
him  if  they  pause  but  one  moment  to  listen  to  the 
nightingale. 

The  latter  sings  in  one  bush  and  the  sedge- 
reedling  in  another  close  together.  The  moment 
the  nightingale  ceases  the  sedge-reedling  lifts  his 
voice,  which  is  a  very  penetrating  one,  and  in  the 
silence  of  the  night  may  be  heard  some  distance. 
This  bird  is  credited  with  imitating  the  notes 
of  several  others,  and  has  been  called  the  English 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

mocking-bird,  but  I  strongly  doubt  the  imitation. 
Nor,  indeed,  could  I  ever  trace  the  supposed  resem- 
blance of  its  song  to  that  of  other  birds. 

It  is  a  song  of  a  particularly  monotonous  char- 
acter. It  is  distinguishable  immediately,  and  if  the 
bird  happens  to  nest  near  a  house,  is  often  disliked 
on  account  of  the  loud  iteration.  Perhaps  those 
who  first  gave  it  the  name  of  the  mocking-bird 
were  not  well  acquainted  with  the  notes  of  the 
birds  which  they  fancied  it  to  mock.  To  mistake 
it  for  the  nightingale,  some  of  whose  tones  it  is 
said  to  imitate,  would  be  like  confounding  the  clash 
of  cymbals  with  the  soft  sound  of  a  flute. 

Linnets  come  to  the  furze,  and  occasionally 
magpies,  but  these  latter  only  in  winter.  Then, 
too,  golden-crested  wrens  may  be  seen  searching 
in  the  furze  bushes  and  creeping  round  and  about 
the  thorns  and  brambles.  There  is  a  roadside  pond 
close  to  the  furze,  the  delight  of  horses  and  cattle 
driven  along  the  dusty  way  in  summer.  Along 
the  shelving  sandy  shore  the  wagtails  run,  both 
the  pied  and  the  yellow,  but  few  birds  come  here 
to  wash ;  for  that  purpose  they  prefer  a  running 
stream  if  it  be  accessible. 

Upon  the  willow  trees  which  border  it,  a  reed 
sparrow  or  black-headed  bunting  may  often  be  ob- 
served. One  bright  March  morning,  as  I  came 
up  the  road,  just  as  the  surface  of  the  pond  became 
—  132  — 


THE    CROWS 

visible  it  presented  a  scene  of  dazzling  beauty. 
At  that  distance  only  the  tops  of  the  ripples  were 
seen,  reflecting  the  light  at  a  very  low  angle. 
The  result  was'  that  the  eye  saw  nothing  of  the 
water  or  the  wavelet,  but  caught  only  the  brilliant 
glow.  Instead  of  a  succession  of  sparkles  there 
seemed  to  be  a  golden  liquid  floating  on  the  surface 
as  oil  floats  —  a  golden  liquid  two  or  three  inches 
thick,  which  flowed  before  the  wind. 

Besides  this  surface  of  molten  gold  there  was  a 
sheen  and  flicker  above  it,  as  if  a  spray  or. vapour, 
carried  along,  or  the  crests  of  the  wavelets  blown 
over,  was  also  of  gold.  But  the  metal  conveys  no 
idea  of  the  glowing,  lustrous  light  which  filled  the 
hollow  by  the  dusty  road.  It  was  visible  from 
one  spot  only,  a  few  steps  altering  the  angle 
lessened  the  glory,  and  as  the  pond  itself  came  into 
view  there  was  nothing  but  a  ripple  on  water 
somewhat  thick  with  suspended  sand.  Thus  things 
change  their  appearance  as  they  are  looked  at  in 
different  ways. 

A  patch  of  water  crowsfoot  grows  on  the  farthest 
side  of  the  pond,  and  in  early  summer  sends  up 
lovely  white  flowers. 


—  133  — 


HEATHLANDS 


ANDOWN  has  become  one  of  the  most 
familiar  places  near  the  metropolis,  but  the 
fir  woods  at  the  back  of  it  are  perhaps 
scarcely  known  to  exist  by  many  who 
visit  the  fashionable  knoll.  Though  near  at  hand, 
they  are  shut  off  by  the  village  of  Esher  ;  but  a 
mile  or  two  westwards,  down  the  Portsmouth 
highway,  there  is  a  cartroad  on  the  left  hand  which 
enters  at  once  into  the  woods. 

The  fine  white  sand  of  the  soil  is  only  covered 
by  a  thin  coating  of  earth  formed  from  the  falling 
leaves  and  decayed  branches,  so  thin  that  it  may 
sometimes  be  rubbed  away  by  the  foot  or  even  the 
fingers.  Grass  and  moss  grow  sparingly  in  the 
track,  but  wherever  wheels  or  footsteps  have  passed 
at  all  frequently  the  sand  is  exposed  in  white  streaks 
under  the  shadowy  firs.  In  grass  small  objects 
often  escape  observation,  but  on  such  a  bare  surface 
everything  becomes  visible.  Coming  to  one  of 
these  places  on  a  summer  day,  I  saw  a  stream  of 
insects  crossing  and  recrossing,  from  the  fern  upon 
one  side  to  the  fern  upon  the  other. 
_i34_ 


HEATHLANDS 

They  were  ants,  but  of  a  very  much  larger 
species  than  the  little  red  and  black  "  emmets  " 
which  exist  in  the  meadows.  These  horse  ants 
were  not  much  less  than  half  an  inch  in  length, 
with  a  round  spot  at  each  end  like  beads,  or  the 
black  top  of  long  pins.  The  length  of  their  legs 
enabled  them  to  move  much  quicker,  and  they 
raced  to  and  fro  over  the  path  with  great  rapidity. 
The  space  covered  by  the  stream  was  a  foot  or 
more  broad,  all  of  which  was  crowded  and  darkened 
by  them,  and  as  there  was  no  cessation  in  the  flow 
of  this  multitude,  their  numbers  must  have  been 
immense. 

Standing  a  short  way  back,  so  as  not  to  interfere 
with  their  proceedings,  I  saw  two  of  these  insects 
seize  hold  of  a  twig,  one  at  each  end.  The  twig, 
which  was  dead  and  dry,  and  had  dropped  from  a 
fir,  was  not  quite  so  long  as  a  match,  but  rather 
thicker.  They  lifted  this  stick  with  ease,  and 
carried  it  along,  exactly  as  labourers  carry  a  plank. 
A  few  short  blades  of  grass  being  in  the  way  they 
ran  up  against  them,  but  stepped  aside,  and  so  got 
by.  A  cart  which  had  passed  a  long  while  since 
had  forced  down  the  sand  by  the  weight  of  its 
load,  leaving  a  ridge  about  three  inches  high,  the 
side  being  perpendicular. 

Till  they  came  to  this  cliff  the  two  ants  moved 
parallel,  but  here  one  of  them  went  first,  and 
—  135  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

climbed  up  the  bank  with  its  end  of  the  stick, 
after  which  the  second  followed  and  brought  up 
the  other.  An  inch  or  two  further,  on  the  level 
ground,  the  second  ant  left  hold  and  went  away, 
and  the  first  laboured  on  with  the  twig  and  dragged 
it  unaided  across  the  rest  of  the  path.  Though 
many  other  ants  stayed  and  looked  at  the  twig  a 
moment,  none  of  them  now  offered  assistance,  as 
if  the  chief  obstacle  had  been  surmounted. 

Several  other  ants  passed,  each  carrying  the 
slender  needles  which  fall  from  firs,  and  which 
seemed  nothing  in  their  powerful  grasp.  These 
burdens  of  wood  all  went  in  one  direction,  to  the 
right  of  the  path. 

I  took  a  step  there,  but  stayed  to  watch  two 
more  ants,  who  had  got  a  long  scarlet  fly  between 
them,  one  holding  it  by  the  head  and  the  other  by 
the  tail.  They  were  hurrying  their  prey  over  the 
dead  leaves  and  decayed  sticks  which  strewed  the 
ground,  and  dragging  it  mercilessly  through  moss 
and  grass.  I  put  the  tip  of  my  stick  on  the  victim, 
but  instead  of  abandoning  it  they  tugged  and  pulled 
desperately,  as  if  they  would  have  torn  it  to  pieces 
rather  than  have  yielded.  So  soon  as  I  released  it 
away  they  went  through  the  fragments  of  branches, 
rushing  the  quicker  for  the  delay. 

A  little  further  there  was  a  spot  where  the 
ground  for  a  yard  or  two  was  covered  with  small 
-136- 


HEATHLANDS 


dead  brown  leaves,  last  year's,  apparently  of  birch, 
for  some  young  birch  saplings  grew  close  by.  One 
of  these  leaves  suddenly  rose  up  and  began  to  move 
of  itself,  as  it  seemed  ;  an  ant  had  seized  it,  and 
holding  it  by  the  edge  travelled  on,  so  that  as  the 
insect  was  partly  hidden  under  it,  the  leaf  appeared 
to  move  alone,  now  over  sticks  and  now  under 
them.  It  reminded  me  of  the  sight  which  seemed 
so  wonderful  to  the  early  navigators  when  they 
came  to  a  country  where,  as  they  first  thought,  the 
leaves  were  alive  and  walked  about. 

The  ant  with  the  leaf  went  towards  a  large 
heap  of  rubbish  under  the  sapling  birches.  While 
watching  the  innumerable  multitude  of  these  in- 
sects, whose  road  here  crossed  these  dead  dry 
leaves,  I  became  conscious  of  a  rustling  sound, 
which  at  first  I  attributed  to  the  wind,  but  seeing 
that  the  fern  was  still  and  that  the  green  leaves  of 
a  Spanish  chestnut  opposite  did  not  move,  I  began 
to  realise  that  this  creeping,  rustling  noise,  distinctly 
audible,  was  not  caused  by  any  wind,  but  by  the 
thousands  upon  thousands  of  insects  passing  over 
the  dead  leaves  and  among  the  grass.  Stooping 
down  to  listen  better,  there  could  be  no  doubt  of 
it :  it  was  the  tramp  of  this  immense  army. 

The  majority  still  moved  in  one  direction,  and 
I  found  it  led  to  the  heap  of  rubbish  over  which 
they  swarmed.  This  heap  was  exactly  what  might 
—  137  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

have  been  swept  together  by  half  a  dozen  men 
using  long  gardeners'  brooms,  and  industriously 
clearing  the  ground  under  the  firs  of  the  fragments 
which  had  fallen  from  them.  It  appeared  to  be 
entirely  composed  of  small  twigs,  fir-needles,  dead 
leaves,  and  similar  things.  The  highest  part  rose 
about  level  with  my  chest  —  say,  between  four 
and  five  feet  —  the  heap  was  irregularly  circular, 
and  not  less  than  three  or  four  yards  across,  with 
sides  gradually  sloping.  In  the  midst  stood  the 
sapling  birches,  their  stumps  buried  in  it,  the  rub- 
bish having  been  piled  up  around  them. 

This  heap  was,  in  fact,  the  enormous  nest  or 
hill  of  a  colony  of  horse  ants.  The  whole  of  it 
had  been  gathered  together,  leaf  by  leaf,  and  twig  by 
twig,  just  as  I  had  seen  the  two  insects  carrying  the 
little  stick,  and  the  third  the  brown  leaf  above  itself. 
It  really  seemed  some  way  round  the  outer  circum- 
ference of  the  nest,  and  while  walking  round  it  was 
necessary  to  keep  brushing  off  the  ants  which 
dropped  on  the  shoulder  from  the  branches  of  the 
birches.  For  they  were  everywhere  j  every  inch 
of  ground,  every  bough  was  covered  with  them. 
Even  standing  near  it  was  needful  to  kick  the  feet 
continually  against  the  black  stump  of  a  fir  which 
had  been  felled  to  jar  them  off,  and  this  again 
brought  still  more,  attracted  by  the  vibration  of  the 
ground. 

-138- 


HEATHLANDS 

The  highest  part  of  the  mound  was  in  the  shape 
of  a  dome,  a  dome  whitened  by  layers  of  fir-needles, 
which  was  apparently  the  most  recent  part  and 
the  centre  of  this  year's  operations.  The  mass  of 
the  heap,  though  closely  compacted,  was  fibrous, 
and  a  stick  could  be  easily  thrust  into  it,  exposing 
the  eggs.  No  sooner  was  such  an  opening  made, 
and  the  stick  withdrawn  from  the  gap,  than  the 
ants  swarmed  into  it,  falling  headlong  over  upon 
each  other,  and  filling  the  bottom  with  their  strug- 
gling bodies.  Upon  leaving  the  spot,  to  follow  the 
footpath,  I  stamped  my  feet  to  shake  down  any 
stray  insects,  and  then  took  off  my  coat  and  gave 
it  a  thorough  shaking. 

Immense  ant-hills  are  often  depicted  in  the  illus- 
trations to  tropical  travels,  but  this  great  pile, 
which  certainly  contained  more  than  a  cart-load,  was 
within  a  few  miles  of  Hyde  Park-corner.  From 
nests  like  this  large  quantities  of  eggs  are  obtained 
for  feeding  the  partridges,  hatched  from  the  eggs 
collected  by  mowers  and  purchased  by  keepers. 
Part  of  the  nest  being  laid  bare  with  any  tool,  the 
eggs  are  hastily  taken  out  in  masses  and  thrown 
into  a  sack.  Some  think  that  ant's  eggs,  although  so 
favourite  a  food,  are  not  always  the  most  advanta- 
geous. Birds  which  have  been  fed  freely  on  these 
eggs  become  fastidious  and  do  not  care  for  much 
else,  so  that  if  the  supply  fails  they  fall  off  in  con- 
—  139  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

dition.  If  there  are  sufficient  eggs  to  last  the 
season,  then  a  few  every  day  produce  the  best 
effect ;  if  not,  they  had  better  not  have  a  feast 
followed  by  a  fast. 

The  sense  of  having  a  roof  overhead  is  felt  in 
walking  through  a  forest  of  firs  like  this,  because 
the  branches  are  all  rt  the  top  of  the  trunks.  The 
stems  rise  to  the  same  height,  and  then  the  dark 
foliage  spreading  forms  a  roof.  As  they  are  not 
very  near  together,  the  eye  can  see  some  distance 
between  them,  and  as  there  is  hardly  any  under- 
wood or  bushes  —  nothing  higher  than  the  fern  — 
there  is  a  space  open  and  unfilled  between  the 
ground  and  the  roof  so  far  above. 

A  vast  hollow  extends  on  every  side,  nor  is  it 
broken  by  the  flitting  of  birds  or  the  rush  of 
animals  among  the  fern.  The  sudden  note  of  a 
wood-pigeon,  hoarse  and  deep,  calling  from  a  fir 
top,  sounds  still  louder  and  ruder  in  the  spacious 
echoing  vault  beneath,  so  loud  as  at  first  to  re- 
semble the  baying  of  a  hound.  The  call  ceases, 
and  another  of  these  watch-dogs  of  the  woods 
takes  it  up  afar  off. 

There  is  an  opening  in  the  monotonous  firs  by 
some  rising  ground,  and  the  sunshine  falls  on 
young  Spanish  chestnuts  and  underwood,  through 
which  is  a  little  used  foot-path.  If  firs  are  planted 
in  wildernesses  with  the  view  of  ultimately  cover- 
—  140  — 


HE ATHLANDS 

ing  the  barren  soil  with  fertile  earth,  formed  by 
the  decay  of  vegetable  matter,  it  is,  perhaps,  open 
to  discussion  as  to  whether  the  best  tree  has  been 
chosen.  Under  firs  the  ground  is  generally  dry, 
too  dry  for  decay  ;  the  resinous  emanations  rather 
tend  to  preserve  anything  that  falls  there. 

No  underwood  or  plants  and  little  grass  grows 
under  them ;  these,  therefore,  which  make  soil 
quickest,  are  prevented  from  improving  the  earth. 
The  needles  of  firs  lie  for  months  without  decay  ; 
they  are,  too,  very  slender,  and  there  are  few 
branches  to  fall.  Beneath  any  other  trees  (such  as 
the  edible  chestnut  and  birch,  which  seem  to  grow 
here),  there  are  the  autumn  leaves  to  decay,  the 
twigs  and  branches  which  fall  off,  while  grasses 
and  plants  flourish,  and  brambles  and  underwood 
grow  freely.  The  earth  remains  moist,  and  all 
these  soon  cause  an  increase  of  the  fertility  ;  so  that, 
unless  fir  tree  timber  is  very  valuable,  and  I  never 
heard  that  it  was,  I  would  rather  plant  a  waste 
with  any  other  tree  or  brushwood,  provided,  of 
course,  it  would  grow.  i 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  explore  this  little  dell  by  the 
side  of  the  rising  ground,  creeping  under  green 
boughs  which  brush  the  shoulders,  after  the  empty 
space  of  the  firs.  Within  there  is  a  pond,  where 
lank  horsetails  grow  thickly,  rising  from  the  water. 
Returning  to  the  rising  ground,  I  pursue  the  path, 
—  141  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

still  under  the  shadow  of  the  firs.  There  is  no 
end  to  them  —  the  vast  monotony  has  no  visible 
limit.  The  brake  fern  —  it  is  early  in  July  —  has 
not  yet  reached  its  full  height,  but  what  that  will  be 
is  shown  by  these  thick  stems  which  rise  smooth 
and  straight,  fully  three  feet  to  the  first  frond. 

A  woodpecker  calls,  and  the  gleam  of  his  green 
and  gold  is  visible  for  a  moment  as  he  hastens 
away  —  the  first  bird,  except  the  wood-pigeons, 
seen  for  an  hour,  yet  there  are  miles  of  firs  around. 
After  a  time  the  ground  rises  again,  the  tall  firs 
cease,  but  are  succeeded  by  younger  firs.  These 
are  more  pleasant  because  they  do  not  exclude  the 
sky.  The  sunshine  lights  the  path,  and  the 
summer  blue  extends  above.  The  fern,  too, 
ceases,  and  the  white  sand  is  now  concealed  by 
heath,  with  here  and  there  a  dash  of  colour. 
Furze  chats  call,  and  flit  to  and  fro ;  the  hum  of 
bees  is  heard  once  more  —  there  was  not  one  under 
the  vacant  shadow  ;  and  swallows  pass  overhead. 

At  last  emerging  from  the  firs  the  open  slope  is 
covered  with  heath  only,  but  heath  growing  so 
thickly  that  even  the  narrow  footpaths  are  hidden 
by  the  overhanging  bushes  of  it.  Some  small 
bushes  of  furze  here  and  there  are  dead  and  dry, 
but  every  prickly  point  appears  perfect ;  when 
struck  with  the  walking-stick  the  bush  crumbles  to 
pieces.  Beneath  and  amid  the  heath  what  seems  a 
—  142  — 


HEATHLANDS 

species  of  lichen  grows  so  profusely  as  to  give  a 
grey  undertone.  In  places  it  supplants  the  heath, 
the  ground  is  concealed  by  lichen  only,  which 
crunches  under  the  foot  like  hoar-frost.  Each 
piece  is  branched  not  unlike  a  stag's  antlers ;  gather 
a  handful  and  it  crumbles  to  pieces  in  the  fingers, 
dry  and  brittle. 

A  quarry  for  sand  has  been  dug  down  some  eight 
or  ten  feet,  so  that  standing  in  it  nothing  else  is 
visible.  This  steep  scarp  shows  the  strata,  yellow 
sand  streaked  with  thin  brown  layers ;  at  the  top  it 
is  fringed  with  heath  in  full  flower,  bunches  of 
purple  bloom  overhanging  the  edge,  and  behind 
this  the  azure  of  the  sky. 

Here,  where  the  ground  slopes  gradually,  it  is 
entirely  covered  with  the  purple  bells  ;  a  sheen  and 
gleam  of  purple  light  plays  upon  it.  A  fragrance 
of  sweet  honey  floats  up  from  the  flowers  where 
grey  hive-bees  are  busy.  Ascending  still  higher 
and  crossing  the  summit,  the  ground  almost  sud- 
denly falls  away  in  a  steep  descent,  and  the  entire 
hillside,  seen  at  a  glance,  is  covered  with  heath, 
and  heath  alone.  A  bunch  at  the  very  edge  offers 
a  purple  cushion  fit  for  a  king ;  resting  here  a 
delicious  summer  breeze,  passing  over  miles  and 
miles  of  fields  and  woods  yonder,  comes  straight 
from  the  distant  hills. 

Along  those  hills  the  lines  of  darker  green  are 
—  143  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

woods  ;  there  are  woods  to  the  south,  and  west,  and 
east,  heath  around,  and  in  the  rear  the  gaze  travels 
over  the  tops  of  the  endless  firs.  But  south- 
wards is  sweetest ;  below,  beyond  the  verge  of 
the  heath,  the  corn  begins,  and  waves  in  the  wind. 
It  is  the  breeze  that  makes  the  summer  day  so 
lovely. 

The  eggs  of  the  nighthawk  are  sometimes  found 
at  this  season  near  by.  They  are  laid  on  the 
ground,  on  the  barest  spots,  where  there  is  no 
herbage.  At  dusk,  the  nighthawk  wheels  with  a 
soft  yet  quick  flight  over  the  ferns  and  about  the 
trees.  Along  the  hedges  bounding  the  heath 
butcher-birds  watch  for  their  prey  —  sometimes  on 
the  furze,  sometimes  on  a  branch  of  ash.  Wood- 
sage  grows  plentifully  on  the  banks  by  the  roads ; 
it  is  a  plant  somewhat  resembling  a  lowly  nettle; 
the  leaves  have  a  hop-like  scent,  and  so  bitter  and 
strong  is  the  odour  that  immediately  after  smelling 
them  the  mouth  for  a  moment  feels  dry  with  a 
sense  of  thirst. 

The  angle  of  a  field  by  the  woods  on  the  eastern 
side  of  the  heath,  the  entire  corner,  is  blue  in  July 
with  viper's  bugloss.  The  stalks  rise  some  two 
feet,  and  are  covered  with  minute  brown  dots ; 
they  are  rough,  and  the  lower  part  prickly.  Blue 
flowers  in  pairs,  with  pink  stamens  and  pink  buds, 
bloom  thickly  round  the  top,  and,  as  each  plant  has 
—  H4  — 


HEATHLANDS 


several  stalks,  it  is  very  conspicuous  where  the 
grass  is  short. 

There  are  hundreds  of  these  flowers  in  this 
corner,  and  along  the  edge  of  the  wood  ;  a  quarter 
of  an  acre  is  blue  with  them.  So  indifferent  are 
people  to  such  things  that  men  working  in  the 
same  field,  and  who  had  pulled  up  the  plant  and 
described  its  root  as  like  that  of  a  dock,  did  not 
know  its  name.  Yet  they  admired  it.  "  It  is  an 
innocent-looking  flower,"  they  said,  that  is,  pleas- 
ant to  look  at. 

By  the  roadside  I  thought  I  saw  something  red 
under  the  long  grass  of  the  mound,  and,  parting 
the  blades,  found  half  a  dozen  wild  strawberries. 
They  were  larger  than  usual,  and  just  ripe.  The 
wild  strawberry  is  a  little  more  acid  than  the  culti- 
vated, and  has  more  flavour  than  would  be  supposed 
from  its  small  size. 

Descending  to  the  lower  ground  again,  the  brake 
fills  every  space  between  the  trees ;  it  is  so  thick 
and  tall  that  the  cows  which  wander  about,  grazing 
at  their  will,  each  wear  a  bell  slung  round  the 
neck,  that  their  position  may  be  discovered  by 
sound.  Otherwise  it  would  be  difficult  to  find 
them  in  the  fern  or  among  the  firs.  There  are 
many  swampy  places  here,  which  should  be  avoided 
by  those  who  dislike  snakes.  The  common  harm- 
less snakes  are  numerous  in  this  part,  and  they 
—  145  — 


^ac     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 


always  keep  near  water.  They  often  glide  into  a 
mole's  "  angle,"  or  hole,  if  found  in  the  open. 

Adders  are  known  to  exist  in  the  woods  round 
about,  but  are  never,  or  very  seldom,  seen  upon 
the  heath  itself.  In  the  woods  of  the  neighbour- 
hood they  are  not  uncommon,  and  are  still  some- 
times killed  for  the  sake  of  the  oil.  The  belief  in 
the  virtue  of  adder's  fat,  or  oil,  is  still  firm  ;  among 
other  uses  it  is  considered  the  best  thing  for  deaf- 
ness, not,  of  course,  resulting  from  organic  defect. 
For  deafness,  the  oil  should  be  applied  by  pouring 
a  small  quantity  into  the  ear,  exactly  in  the  same 
manner  as  in  the  play  the  poison  is  poured  into  the 
ear  of  the  sleeping  king.  Cures  are  declared  to  be 
effected  by  this  oil  at  the  present  day. 

It  is  procured  by  skinning  the  adder,  taking  the 
fat,  and  boiling  it  ;  the  result  is  a  clear  oil,  which 
never  thickens  in  the  coldest  weather.  One  of 
these  reptiles  on  being  killed  and  cut  open  was 
found  to  contain  the  body  of  a  full-grown  toad. 
The  old  belief  that  the  young  of  the  viper  enters 
its  mouth  for  refuge  still  lingers.  The  existence 
of  adders  in  the  woods  here  seems  so  undoubted 
that  strangers  should  be  a  little  careful  if  they  leave 
the  track.  Viper's  bugloss,  which  grows  so  freely 
by  the  heath,  was  so  called  because  anciently  it  was 
thought  to  yield  an  antidote  to  the  adder's  venom. 

-146- 


THE    RIVER 


iHERE  is  a  slight  but  perceptible  colour 
in  the  atmosphere  of  summer.  It  is 
not  visible  close  at  hand,  nor  always 
where  the  light  falls  strongest,  and  if 
looked  at  too  long  it  sometimes  fades  away.  But 
over  gorse  and  heath,  in  the  warm  hollows  of 
wheatfields,  and  round  about  the  rising  ground 
there  is  something  more  than  air  alone.  It  is  not 
mist,  nor  the  hazy  vapour  of  autumn,  nor  the  blue 
tints  that  come  over  distant  hills  and  woods. 

As  there  is  a  bloom  upon  the  peach  and  grape, 
so  this  is  the  bloom  of  summer.  The  air  is  ripe 
and  rich,  full  of  the  emanations,  the  perfume,  from 
corn  and  flower  and  leafy  tree.  In  strictness  the 
term  will  not,  of  course,  be  accurate,  yet  by  what 
other  word  can  this  appearance  in  the  atmosphere 
be  described  but  as  a  bloom  ?  Upon  a  still  and 
sunlit  summer  afternoon  it  may  be  seen  over  the 
osier-covered  islets  in  the  Thames  immediately 
above  Teddington  Lock. 

It  hovers  over  the  level  cornfields  that  stretch 
towards   Richmond,  and   along  the  ridge   of  the 
—  147  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

wooded  hills  that  bound  them.  The  bank  by  the 
towing-path  is  steep  and  shadowless,  being  bare  of 
trees  or  hedge ;  but  the  grass  is  pleasant  to  rest  on, 
and  heat  is  always  more  supportable  near  flowing 
water.  In  places  the  friable  earth  has  crumbled 
away,  and  there,  where  the  soil  and  the  stones 
are  exposed,  the  stonecrop  flourishes.  A  narrow 
footpath  on  the  summit,  raised  high  above  the 
water,  skirts  the  corn,  and  is  overhung  with  grass 
heavily  laden  by  its  own  seed. 

Sometimes  in  early  June  the  bright  trifolium, 
drooping  with  its  weight  of  flower,  brushes  against 
the  passer-by  —  acre  after  acre  of  purple.  Oc- 
casionally the  odour  of  beans  in  blossom  floats  out 
over  the  river.  Again,  above  the  green  wheat 
the  larks  rise,  singing  as  they  soar  ;  or  later  on 
the  butterflies  wander  over  the  yellow  ears.  Or, 
as  the  law  of  rotation  dictates,  the  barley  whitens 
under  the  sun.  Still,  whether  in  the  dry  day,  or 
under  the  dewy  moonlight,  the  plain  stretching 
from  the  water  to  the  hills  is  never  without  per- 
fume, colour,  or  song. 

There  stood,  one  summer  not  long  since,  in  the 
corner  of  a  barley  field  close  to  the  Lock,  within  a 
stone's  throw,  perfect  shrubs  of  mallow,  rising  to 
the  shoulder,  thick  as  a  walking-stick,  and  hung 
with  flower.  Poppies  filled  every  interstice  be- 
tween the  barley  stalks,  their  scarlet  petals  turned 
-148- 


THE    RIVER 

back  in  very  languor  of  exuberant  colour,  as  the 
awns,  drooping  over,  caressed  them.  Poppies, 
again,  in  the  same  fields  formed  a  scarlet  ground 
from  which  the  golden  wheat  sprang  up,  and 
among  it  here  and  there  shone  the  large  blue  rays 
of  wild  succory. 

The  paths  across  the  corn  having  no  hedges,  the 
wayfarer  really  walks  among  the  wheat,  and  can 
pluck  with  either  hand.  The  ears  rise  above  the 
heads  of  children,  who  shout  with  joy  as  they  rush 
along  as  though  to  the  arms  of  their  mother. 

Beneath  the  towing-path,  at  the  roots  of  the 
willow  bushes,  which  the  tow-ropes,  so  often 
drawn  over  them,  have  kept  low,  the  water-docks 
lift  their  thick  stems  and  giant  leaves.  Bunches 
of  rough-leaved  comfrey  grow  down  to  the  water's 
edge  —  indeed,  the  coarse  stems  sometimes  bear 
signs  of  having  been  partially  under  water  when  a 
freshet  followed  a  storm.  The  flowers  are  not  so 
perfectly  bell-shaped  as  those  of  some  plants,  but 
are  rather  tubular.  They  appear  in  April,  though 
then  green,  and  may  be  found  all  the  summer 
months.  Where  the  comfrey  grows  thickly  the 
white  bells  give  some  colour  to  the  green  of  the 
bank,  and  would  give  more  were  they  not  so  often 
overshadowed  by  the  leaves. 

Water  betony,  or  persicaria,  lifts  its  pink  spikes 
everywhere,  tiny  florets  close  together  round  the 
—  149  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

stem  at  the  top ;  the  leaves  are  willow-shaped,  and 
there  is  scarcely  a  hollow  or  break  in  the  bank 
where  the  earth  has  fallen  which  is  not  clothed 
with  them.  A  mile  or  two  up  the  river  the  tansy 
is  plentiful,  bearing  golden  buttons,  which,  like 
every  fragment  of  the  feathery  foliage,  if  pressed 
in  the  fingers,  impart  to  them  a  peculiar  scent. 
There,  too,  the  yellow  loose-strife  pushes  up  its 
tall  slender  stalks  to  the  top  of  the  low  willow 
bushes,  that  the  bright  yellow  flowers  may  emerge 
from  the  shadow. 

The  river  itself,  the  broad  stream,  ample  and 
full,  exhibits  all  its  glory  in  this  reach  ;  from  One 
Tree  to  the  Lock  it  is  nearly  straight,  and  the 
river  itself  is  everything.  Between  wooded  hills, 
or  where  divided  by  numerous  islets,  or  where 
trees  and  hedges  enclose  the  view,  the  stream  is 
but  part  of  the  scene.  Here  it  is  all.  The  long 
raised  bank  without  a  hedge  or  fence,  with  the 
cornfields  on  its  level,  simply  guides  the  eye  to  the 
water.  Those  who  are  afloat  upon  it  insensibly 
yield  to  the  influence  of  the  open  expanse. 

The  boat  whose  varnished  sides  but  now  slipped 
so  gently  that  the  cutwater  did  not  even  raise  a 
wavelet,  and  every  black  rivet  head  was  visible  as 
a  line  of  dots,  begins  to  forge  ahead.  The  oars 
are  dipped  farther  back,  and  as  the  blade  feels  the 
water  holding  it  in  the  hollow,  the  lissom  wood 
—  150  — 


THE    RIVER 

bends  to  its  work.  Before  the  cutwater  a  wave 
rises,  and,  repulsed,  rushes  outwards.  At  each 
stroke,  as  the  weight  swings  towards  the  prow, 
there  is  just  the  least  faint  depression  at  its  stem  as 
the  boat  travels.  Whirlpool  after  whirlpool  glides 
from  the  oars,  revolving  to  the  rear  with  a  three- 
fold motion,  round  and  round,  backwards  and 
outwards.  The  crew  impart  their  own  life  to 
their  boat;  the  animate  and  inanimate  become  as 
one,  the  boat  is  no  longer  wooden  but  alive. 

If  there  be  a  breeze  a  fleet  of  white  sails  comes 
round  the  willow-hidden  bend.  But  the  Thames 
yachtsmen  have  no  slight  difficulties  to  contend 
with.  The  capricious  wind  is  nowhere  so  thor- 
oughly capricious  as  on  the  upper  river.  Along 
one  mile  there  may  be  a  spanking  breeze,  the  very 
next  is  calm,  or  with  a  fitful  puff  coming  over  a 
high  hedge,  which  flutters  his  pennant,  but  does 
not  so  much  as  shake  the  sail.  Even  in  the  same 
mile  the  wind  may  take  the  water  on  one  side,  and 
scarcely  move  a  leaf  on  the  other.  But  the  current 
is  always  there,  and  the  vessel  is  certain  to  drift. 

When  at  last  a  good  opportunity  is  obtained, 
just  as  the  boat  heels  over,  and  the  rushing  bubbles 
at  the  prow  resound,  she  must  be  put  about,  and 
the  flapping  foresail  almost  brushes  the  osiers.  If 
she  does  not  come  round  —  if  the  movement  has 
been  put  off  a  moment  too  long  —  the  keel  grates, 
—  151  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

and  she  is  aground  immediately.  It  is  nothing  but 
tacking,  tacking,  tacking  —  a  kind  of  stitching  the 
stream. 

Nor  can  one  always  choose  the  best  day  for  the 
purpose ;  the  exigencies  of  business,  perhaps,  will 
not  permit,  and  when  free,  the  wind,  which  has 
been  scattering  tiles  and  chimney-pots  and  snapping 
telegraph  wires  in  the  City  all  the  week,  drops  on 
the  Saturday  to  nothing.  He  must  possess  invin- 
cible patience,  and  at  the  same  time  be  always 
ready  to  advance  his  vessel  even  a  foot,  and  his 
judgment  must  never  fail  him  at  the  critical  time. 

But  the  few  brief  hours  when  the  circumstances 
are  favourable  compensate  for  delays  and  monoto- 
nous calms  j  the  vessel,  built  on  well-judged  lines, 
answers  her  helm  and  responds  to  his  will  with  in- 
stant obedience,  and  that  sense  of  command  is  per- 
haps the  great  charm  of  sailing.  There  are  others 
who  find  a  pleasure  in  the  yacht.  When  at  her 
moorings  on  a  sunny  morning  she  is  sometimes 
boarded  by  laughing  girls,  who  have  put  off  from 
the  lawn,  and  who  proceed  in  the  most  sailor-like 
fashion  to  overhaul  the  rigging  and  see  that  every- 
thing is  ship-shape.  No  position  shows  off  a 
well-poised  figure  to  such  advantage  as  when,  in  a 
close-fitting  costume,  a  lady's  arms  are  held  high 
above  her  head  to  haul  at  a  rope. 

So  the  river  life  flows  by  ;  skiffs,  and  four  oars, 
—  152  — 


THE    RIVER 


canoes,  solitary  scullers  in  outriggers,  once  now 
and  then  a  swift  eight,  launches,  a  bargee  in  a  tub- 
like  dingy  standing  up  and  pushing  his  sculls  in- 
stead of  pulling  ;  gentlemen,  with  their  shoulders  in 
a  halter,  hauling  like  horses  and  towing  fair  freights 
against  the  current  ;  and  punts  poled  across  to 
shady  nooks.  The  splashing  of  oars,  the  staccato 
sound  as  a  blade  feathered  too  low  meets  the 
wavelets,  merry  voices  sometimes  a  song,  and 
always  a  low  undertone,  which,  as  the  wind  accel- 
erates it,  rises  to  a  roar.  It  is  the  last  leap  of  the 
river  to  the  sea ;  the  last  weir  to  whose  piles 
the  tide  rises.  On  the  bank  of  the  weir  where 
the  tide  must  moisten  their  roots  grow  dense 
masses  of  willow-herb,  almost  as  high  as  the 
shoulder,  with  trumpet-shaped  pink  flowers. 

Let  us  go  back  again  to  the  bank  by  the  corn- 
fields, with  the  glorious  open  stretch  of  stream. 
In  the  evening,  the  rosy  or  golden  hues  of  the  sun- 
set will  be  reflected  on  the  surface  from  the  clouds ; 
then  the  bats  wheel  to  and  fro,  and  once  now  and 
then  a  nighthawk  will  throw  himself  through  the 
air  with  uncertain  flight,  his  motions  scarcely  to 
be  followed,  as  darkness  falls.  Am  I  mistaken,  or 
are  kingfishers  less  numerous  than  they  were  only 
a  few  seasons  since  ?  Then  I  saw  them,  now  I 
do  not.  Long-continued  and  severe  frosts  are  very 
fatal  to  these  birds ;  they  die  on  the  perch. 
—  J53  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON    JBS 


And  may  I  say  a  word  for  the  Thames  otter? 
The  list  of  really  wild  animals  now  existing  in  the 
home  counties  is  so  very,  very  short,  that  the  ex- 
termination of  one  of  them  seems  a  serious  loss. 
Every  effort  is  made  to  exterminate  the  otter.  No 
sooner  does  one  venture  down  the  river  than  traps, 
gins,  nets,  dogs,  prongs,  brickbats,  every  species 
of  missile,  all  the  artillery  of  vulgar  destruction, 
are  brought  against  its  devoted  head.  Unless  my 
memory  serves  me  wrong,  one  of  these  creatures 
caught  in  a  trap  not  long  since  was  hammered  to 
death  with  a  shovel  or  a  pitchfork. 

Now  the  river  fox  is,  we  know,  extremely  de- 
structive to  fish,  but  what  are  a  basketful  of  "  bait  " 
compared  to  one  otter  ?  The  latter  will  certainly 
never  be  numerous,  for  the  moment  they  become 
so,  otter-hounds  would  be  employed,  and  then  we 
should  see  some  sport.  Londoners,  I  think, 
scarcely  recognise  the  fact  that  the  otter  is  one  of 
the  last  links  between  the  wild  past  of  ancient 
England  and  the  present  days  of  high  civilisation. 

The  beaver  is  gone,  but  the  otter  remains,  and 
comes  so  near  the  mighty  City  as  just  the  other 
side  of  the  well-known  Lock,  the  portal  through 
which  a  thousand  boats  at  holiday  time  convey 
men  and  women  to  breathe  pure  air.  The  por- 
poise, and  even  the  seal  it  is  said,  ventures  to 
Westminster  sometimes;  the  otter  to  Kingston. 
—  154— 


THE    RIVER 


Thus,  the  sea  sends  its  denizens  past  the  vast 
multitude  that  surges  over  the  City  bridges,  and 
the  last  link  with  the  olden  time,  the  otter,  still 
endeavours  to  live  near. 

Perhaps  the  river  is  sweetest  to  look  on  in  spring- 
time or  early  summer.  Seen  from  a  distance  the 
water  seems  at  first  sight,  when  the  broad  stream 
fills  the  vision  as  a  whole,  to  flow  with  smooth, 
even  current  between  meadow  and  cornfield.  But, 
coming  to  the  brink,  that  silvery  surface  now  ap- 
pears exquisitely  chased  with  ever-changing  lines. 
The  light  airs,  wandering  to  and  fro  where  high 
banks  exclude  the  direct  influence  of  the  breeze, 
flutter  the  ripples  hither  and  thither,  so  that,  instead 
of  rolling  upon  one  lee  shore,  they  meet  and  expend 
their  little  force  upon  each  other.  A  continuous 
rising  and  falling,  without  a  line  of  direction,  thus 
breaks  up  the  light,  not  with  sparkle  or  glitter,  but 
with  endless  silvery  facets. 

There  is  no  pattern.  The  apparently  inter- 
tangled  tracing  on  a  work  of  art  presently  resolves 
itself  into  a  design,  which  once  seen  is  always  the 
same.  These  wavelets  form  no  design  ;  watch  the 
sheeny  maze  as  long  as  one  will,  the  eye  cannot 
get  at  the  clue,  and  so  unwind  the  pattern. 

Each  seems  for  a  second  exactly  like  its  fellow, 
but  varies  while  you  say  "  These  two  are  the 
same,"  and  the  white  reflected  light  upon  the  wide 
—  155  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

stream  is  now  strongest  here,  and  instantly  after- 
wards flickers  yonder. 

Where  a  gap  in  the  willows  admits  a  current  of 
air  a  ripple  starts  to  rush  straight  across,  but  is  met 
by  another  returning,  which  has  been  repulsed  from 
the  blufF  bow  of  a  moored  boat,  and  the  two  cross 
and  run  through  each  other.  As  the  level  of  the 
stream  now  slightly  rises  and  again  falls,  the  jagged 
top  of  a  large  stone  by  the  shore  alternately  appears 
above,  or  is  covered  by  the  surface.  The  water 
as  it  retires  leaves  for  a  moment  a  hollow  in  itself 
by  the  stone,  and  then  swings  back  to  fill  the 
vacuum. 

Long  roots  of  willows  and  projecting  branches 
cast  their  shadow  upon  the  shallow  sandy  bottom ; 
the  shadow  of  a  branch  can  be  traced  slanting 
downwards  with  the  shelve  of  the  sand  till  lost  in 
the  deeper  water.  Are  those  little  circlets  of  light 
enclosing  a  round  umbra  or  slightly  darker  spot, 
that  move  along  the  bottom  as  the  bubbles  drift 
above  on  the  surface,  shadows  or  reflections  ? 

In  still,  dark  places  of  the  stream,  where  there 
seems  no  current,  a  dust  gathers  on  the  water, 
falling  from  the  trees,  or  borne  thither  by  the  wind 
and  dropping  where  its  impulse  ceases.  Shadows 
of  branches  lie  here  upon  the  surface  itself,  received 
by  the  greenish  water  dust.  Round  the  curve  on 
the  concave  and  lee  side  of  the  river,  where  the 
156 


THE    RIVER 


wind  drives  the  wavelets  direct  upon  the  strand, 
there  are  little  beaches  formed  by  the  undermining 
and  fall  of  the  bank. 

The  tiny  surge  rolls  up  the  incline  ;  each  wave 
differing  in  the  height  to  which  it  reaches,  and 
none  of  them  alike,  washing  with  it  minute  frag- 
ments of  stone  and  gravel,  mere  specks  which 
vibrate  to  and  fro  with  the  ripple  and  even  drift 
with  the  current.  Will  these  fragments,  after  a 
process  of  trituration,  ultimately  become  sand  ?  A 
groove  runs  athwart  the  bottom,  left  recently  by 
the  keel  of  a  skiff,  recently  only,  for  in  a  few  hours 
these  specks  of  gravel,  sand,  and  particles  that  sweep 
along  the  bottom,  fill  up  such  depressions.  The 
motion  of  these  atoms  is  not  continuous,  but  in- 
termittent ;  now  they  rise  and  are  carried  a  few 
inches  and  there  sink,  in  a  minute  or  two  to  rise 
again  and  proceed. 

Looking  to  windward  there  is  a  dark  tint  upon 
the  water  ;  but  down  the  stream,  turning  the  other 
way,  intensely  brilliant  points  of  light  appear  and 
disappear.  Behind  a  boat  rowed  against  the  cur- 
rent two  widening  lines  of  wavelets,  in  the  shape 
of  an  elongated  V,  stretch  apart  and  glitter,  and 
every  dip  of  the  oars  and  the  slippery  oar  blades 
themselves,  as  they  rise  out  of  the  water,  reflect 
the  sunshine.  The  boat  appears  but  to  touch  the 
surface,  instead  of  sinking  into  it,  for  the  water  is 
—  157  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

transparent,  and  the  eye  can  see  underneath  the 
keel. 

Here,  by  some  decaying  piles,  a  deep  eddy  whirls 
slowly  round  and  round  ;  they  stand  apart  from  the 
shore,  for  the  eddy  has  cleared  away  the  earth 
around  them.  Now,  walking  behind  the  waves 
that  roll  away  from  you,  dark  shadowy  spots 
fluctuate  to  and  fro  in  the  trough  of  the  water. 
Before  a  glance  can  define  its  shape  the  shadow 
elongates  itself  from  a  spot  to  an  oval,  the  oval 
melts  into  another  oval,  and  reappears  afar  off. 
When,  too,  in  flood  time,  the  hurrying  current 
seems  to  respond  more  sensitively  to  the  shape  of 
the  shallows  and  the  banks  beneath,  there  boils  up 
from  below  a  ceaseless  succession  of  irregular  cir- 
cles as  if  the  water  there  expanded  from  a  centre, 
marking  the  verge  of  its  outflow  with  bubbles 
and  raised  lines  upon  the  surface. 

By  the  side  float  tiny  whirlpools,  some  rotating 
this  way  and  some  that,  sucking  down  and  boring 
tubes  into  the  stream.  Longer  lines  wander  past, 
and  as  they  go,  curve  round,  till  when  about  to 
make  a  spiral  they  lengthen  out  and  drift,  and  thus, 
perpetually  coiling  and  uncoiling,  glide  with  the 
current.  They  somewhat  resemble  the  conven- 
tional curved  strokes  which,  upon  an  Assyrian  bas- 
relief,  indicate  water. 

Under  the  spring  sunshine,  the  idle  stream  flows 
-158- 


THE    RIVER 


easily  onward,  yet  every  part  of  the  apparently  even 
surface  varies ;  and  so,  too,  in  a  larger  way,  the 
aspects  of  the  succeeding  reaches  change.  Upon 
one  broad  bend  the  tints  are  green,  for  the  river 
moves  softly  in  a  hollow,  with  its  back  as  it  were 
to  the  wind. 

The  green  lawn  sloping  to  the  shore,  and  the 
dark  cedar's  storeys  of  flattened  foliage,  tier  above 
tier  j  the  green  osiers  of  two  eyots ;  the  light- 
leaved  aspen ;  the  tall  elms,  fresh  and  green  ;  and 
the  green  hawthorn  bushes  give  their  colour  to  the 
water,  smooth  as  if  polished,  in  which  they  are  re- 
flected. A  white  swan  floats  in  the  still  narrow 
channel  between  the  eyots,  and  there  is  a  punt 
painted  green  moored  in  a  little  inlet  by  the  lawn, 
and  scarce  visible  under  drooping  boughs.  Roofs 
of  red  tile  and  dormer  windows  rise  behind  the 
trees,  the  dull  yellow  of  the  walls  is  almost  hidden, 
and  deep  shadows  lurk  about  the  shore. 

Opposite,  across  the  stream,  a  wide  greensward 
stretches  beside  the  towing-path,  lit  up  with  sun- 
shine which  touches  the  dandelions  till  they  glow 
in  the  grass.  From  time  to  time  a  nightingale 
sings  in  a  hawthorn  unregarded,  and  in  the  elms  of 
the  park  hard  by  a  crowd  of  jackdaws  chatter. 
But  a  little  way  round  a  curve  the  whole  stream 
opens  to  the  sunlight  and  becomes  blue,  reflecting 
the  sky.  Again,  sweeping  round  another  curve 
—  159  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

with  bounteous  flow,  the  current  meets  the  wind 
direct,  a  cloud  comes  up,  the  breeze  freshens,  and 
the  watery  green  waves  are  tipped  with  foam. 

Rolling  upon  the  strand,  they  leave  a  line  like  a 
tide  marked  by  twigs  and  fragments  of  dead  wood, 
leaves,  and  the  hop-like  flowers  of  Chichester  elms 
which  have  been  floated  up  and  left.  Over  the 
stormy  waters  a  band  of  brown  bank-martins  wheel 
hastily  to  and  fro,  and  from  the  osiers  the  loud 
chirp  of  the  sedge-reedling  rises  above  the  buffet  of 
the  wind  against  the  ear,  and  the  splashing  of  the 
waves. 

Once  more  a  change,  where  the  stream  darts 
along  swiftly,  after  having  escaped  from  a  weir, 
and  still  streaked  with  foam.  The  shore  rises  like 
a  sea  beach,  and  on  the  pebbles  men  are  patching 
and  pitching  old  barges  which  have  been  hauled 
up  on  the  bank.  A  skiff  partly  drawn  up  on  the 
beach  rocks  as  the  current  strives  to  work  it  loose, 
and  up  the  varnish  of  the  side  glides  a  flickering 
light  reflected  from  the  wavelets.  A  fleet  of 
such  skiffs  are  waiting  for  hire  by  the  bridge ;  the 
waterman  cleaning  them  with  a  parti-coloured  mop 
spies  me  eyeing  his  vessels,  and  before  I  know 
exactly  what  is  going  on,  and  whether  I  have  yet 
made  up  my  mind,  the  sculls  are  ready,  the 
cushions  in ;  I  take  my  seat,  and  am  shoved  gently 
forth  upon  the  stream. 

— 160  — 


THE    RIVER 

After  I  have  gone  under  the  arch,  and  am  clear 
of  all  obstructions,  I  lay  the  sculls  aside,  and 
reclining  let  the  boat  drift  past  a  ballast  punt 
moored  over  the  shallowest  place,  and  with  a  rising 
load  of  gravel.  One  man  holds  the  pole  steady- 
ing the  scoop,  while  his  mate  turns  a  windlass  the 
chain  from  which  drags  it  along  the  bottom  filling 
the  bag  with  pebbles,  and  finally  hauls  it  to  the 
surface,  when  the  contents  are  shot  out  in  the  punt. 

It  is  a  floating  box  rather  than  a  boat,  square  at 
each  end,  and  built  for  capacity  instead  of  progress. 
There  are  others  moored  in  various  places,  and  all 
hard  at  work.  The  men  in  this  one,  scarcely 
glancing  at  my  idle  skiff,  go  steadily  on,  dropping 
the  scoop,  steadying  the  pole,  turning  the  crank,  and 
emptying  the  pebbles  with  a  rattle. 

Where  do  these  pebbles  come  from  ?  Like  the 
stream  itself  there  seems  a  continual  supply  ;  if  a 
bank  be  scooped  away  and  punted  to  the  shore, 
presently  another  bank  forms.  If  a  hollow  be 
deepened,  by-and-by  it  fills  up ;  if  a  channel  be 
opened,  after  a  while  it  shallows  again.  The 
stony  current  flows  along  below,  as  the  liquid 
current  above.  Yet  in  so  many  centuries  the 
strand  has  not  been  cleared  of  its  gravel,  nor  has 
it  all  been  washed  out  from  the  banks. 

The  skiff  drifts  again,  at  first  slowly,  till  the 
current  takes  hold  of  it  and  bears  it  onward.  Soon 
— 161  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

it  is  evident  that  a  barge-port  is  near  —  a  haven 
where  barges  discharge  their  cargoes.  A  by-way 
leads  down  to  the  river  where  boats  are  lying  for 
hire  —  a  dozen  narrow  punts,  waiting  at  this  an- 
chorage till  groundbait  be  lawful.  The  ends  of 
varnished  skiffs,  high  and  dry,  are  visible  in  a  shed 
carefully  covered  with  canvass;  while  sheaves  of 
oars  and  sculls  lean  against  the  wooden  wall. 

Through  the  open  doors  of  another  shed  there 
may  be  had  a  glimpse  of  shavings  and  tools,  and 
slight  battens  crossing  the  workshop  in  apparent 
confusion,  forming  a  curious  framework.  These 
are  the  boat-builder's  struts  and  stays,  and  contriv- 
ances to  keep  the  boat  in  rigid  position,  that  her 
lines  may  be  true  and  delicate,  strake  upon  strake 
of  dull  red  mahogany  rising  from  the  beechen  keel, 
for  the  craftsman  strings  his  boat  almost  as  a 
violinist  strings  his  violin,  with  the  greatest  care 
and  heed,  and  with  a  right  adjustment  of  curve 
and  due  proportion.  There  is  not  much  clinking, 
or  sawing,  or  thumping  j  little  noise,  but  much 
skill. 

Gradually  the  scene  opens.  Far  down  a  white 
bridge  spans  the  river  ;  on  the  shore  red-tiled  and 
gabled  houses  crowd  to  the  very  edge ;  and  behind 
them  a  church  tower  stands  out  clear  against  the 
sky.  There  are  barges  everywhere.  By  the 
towing-path  colliers  are  waiting  to  be  drawn  up 


THE    RIVER 

stream,  black  as  their  freight,  by  the  horses  that  are 
nibbling  the  hawthorn  hedge ;  while  by  the  wharf, 
labourers  are  wheeling  barrows  over  bending  planks 
from  the  barges  to  the  carts  upon  the  shore.  A 
tug  comes  under  the  bridge,  panting,  every  puff 
re-echoed  from  the  arches,  dragging  by  sheer  force 
deeply  laden  flats  behind  it.  The  water  in  front 
of  their  bluff  bows  rises  in  a  wave  nearly  to  the 
deck,  and  then  swoops  in  a  sweeping  curve  to  the 
rear. 

The  current  by  the  port  runs  back  on  the 
wharf  side  towards  its  source,  and  the  foam  drifts 
up  the  river  instead  of  down.  Green  flags  on 
a  sandbank  far  out  in  the  stream,  their  roots 
covered  and  their  bent  tips  only  visible,  now  swing 
with  the  water  and  now  heel  over  with  the  breeze. 
The  Edwin  and  Angelina  lies  at  anchor,  waiting 
to  be  warped  into  her  berth,  her  sails  furled,  her 
green  painted  water  barrel  lashed  by  the  stern,  her 
tiller  idle  after  the  long  and  toilsome  voyage  from 
Rochester. 

For  there  are  perils  of  the  deep  even  to  those 
who  only  go  down  to  it  in  barges.  Barge  as  she 
is,  she  is  not  without  a  certain  beauty,  and  a 
certain  interest,  inseparable  from  all  that  has  re- 
ceived the  buffet  of  the  salt  water,  and  over  which 
the  salt  spray  has  flown.  Barge  too,  as  she  is,  she 
bears  her  part  in  the  commerce  of  the  world. 
—  163  — 


:&-^     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

The  very  architecture  on  the  shore  is  old-fashioned 
where  these  bluff-bowed  vessels  come,  narrow 
streets  and  over-hanging  houses,  boat  anchors  in 
the  windows,  sails  and  tarry  ropes ;  and  is  there 
not  a  Row  Barge  Inn  somewhere  ? 

"  Hoy,  ahoy  !  " 

The  sudden  shout  startles  me,  and,  glancing 
round,  I  find  an  empty  black  barge,  high  out  of  the 
water,  floating  helplessly  down  upon  me  with  the 
stream.  Noiselessly  the  great  hulk  had  drifted 
upon  me ;  as  it  came  the  light  glinted  on  the 
wavelets  before  the  bow,  quick  points  of  brilliant 
light.  But  two  strokes  with  the  sculls  carried  me 
out  of  the  way. 


-164- 


NUTTY   AUTUMN 


|HERE  is  some  honeysuckle  still  flow- 
ering at  the  tops  of  the  hedges,  where 
in  the  morning  gossamer  lies  like  a 
dewy  net.  The  gossamer  is  a  sign 
both  of  approaching  autumn  and,  exactly  at  the 
opposite  season  of  the  year,  of  approaching  spring. 
It  stretches  from  pole  to  pole,  and  bough  to  bough, 
in  the  copses  in  February,  as  the  lark  sings.  It 
covers  the  furze,  and  lies  along  the  hedge-tops  in 
September,  as  the  lark,  after  a  short  or  partial 
silence,  occasionally  sings  again. 

But  the  honeysuckle  does  not  flower  so  finely 
as  the  first  time ;  there  is  more  red  (the  unopened 
petal)  than  white,  and  beneath,  lower  down  the 
stalk,  are  the  red  berries,  the  fruit  of  the  former 
bloom.  Yellow  weed,  or  ragwort,  covers  some 
fields  almost  as  thickly  as  buttercups  in  summer, 
but  it  lacks  the  rich  colour  of  the  buttercup.  Some 
knotty  knapweeds  stay  in  out-of-the-way  places, 
where  the  scythe  has  not  been  ;  some  bunches  of 
mayweed,  too,  are  visible  in  the  corners  of  the 
stubble. 

-165- 


sr~~3S    NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

Silverweed  lays  its  golden  flower  —  like  a  butter- 
cup without  a  stalk  —  level  on  the  ground  ;  it  has 
no  protection,  and  any  passing  foot  may  press  it 
into  the  dust.  A  few  white  or  pink  flowers 
appear  on  the  brambles,  and  in  waste  places  a  little 
St.  John's  wort  remains  open,  but  the  seed  vessels 
are  for  the  most  part  forming.  St.  John's  wort  is 
the  flower  of  the  harvest;  the  yellow  petals  appear 
as  the  wheat  ripens,  and  there  are  some  to  be 
found  till  the  sheaves  are  carted.  Once  now  and 
then  a  blue  and  slender  bell-flower  is  lighted  on  ;  in 
Sussex  the  larger  varieties  bloom  till  much  later. 

By  still  ponds,  to  which  the  moorhens  have  now 
returned,  tall  spikes  of  purple  loosestrife  rise  in 
bunches.  In  the  furze  there  is  still  much  yellow, 
and  wherever  heath  grows  it  spreads  in  shim- 
mering gleams  of  purple  between  the  birches ;  for 
these  three,  furze,  heath,  and  birch,  are  usually 
together.  The  fields,  therefore,  are  not  yet  flower- 
less,  nor  yet  without  colour  here  and  there,  and 
the  leaves,  which  stay  on  the  trees  till  late  in  the 
autumn,  are  more  interesting  now  than  they  have 
been  since  they  lost  their  first  fresh  green. 

Oak,  elm,  beech,  and  birch,  all  have  yellow 
spots,  while  retaining  their  groundwork  of  green. 
Oaks  are  often  much  browner,  but  the  moisture  in 
the  atmosphere  keeps  the  sap  in  the  leaves.  Even 
the  birches  are  only  tinted  in  a  few  places,  the 
— 166  — 


E^srsss^    NUTTY   AUTUMN    jgF_ 


elms  very  little,  and  the  beeches  not  much  more  : 
so  it  would  seem  that  their  hues  will  not  be  gone 
altogether  till  November.  Frosts  have  not  yet 
bronzed  the  dogwood  in  the  hedges,  and  the  hazel 
leaves  are  fairly  firm.  The  hazel  generally  drops 
its  leaves  at  a  touch  about  this  time,  and  while  you 
are  nutting,  if  you  shake  a  bough,  they  come  down 
all  around. 

The  rushes  are  but  faintly  yellow,  and  the  slen- 
der tips  still  point  upwards.  Dull  purple  burrs 
cover  the  burdock  ;  the  broad  limes  are  withering, 
but  the  leaves  are  thick,  and  the  teazles  are  still 
flowering.  Looking  upwards,  the  trees  are  tinted; 
lower,  the  hedges  are  not  without  colour,  and  the 
field  itself  is  speckled  with  blue  and  yellow. 
The  stubble  is  almost  hidden  in  many  fields  by  the 
growth  of  weeds  brought  up  by  the  rain  ;  still  the 
tops  appear  above  and  do  not  allow  it  to  be  green. 
The  stubble  has  a  colour  —  white  if  barley,  yellow 
if  wheat  or  oats.  The  meads  are  as  verdant,  even 
more  so,  than  in  the  spring,  because  of  the  rain, 
and  the  brooks  crowded  with  green  flags. 

Haws  are  very  plentiful  this  year  (1881),  and 
exceptionally  large,  many  fully  double  the  size 
commonly  seen.  So  heavily  are  the  branches 
laden  with  bunches  of  the  red  fruit  that  they 
droop  as  apple  trees  do  with  a  more  edible  burden. 
Though  so  big,  and  to  all  appearance  tempting  to 
—  167  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

birds,  none  have  yet  been  eaten ;  and,  indeed, 
haws  seem  to  be  resorted  to  only  as  a  change, 
unless  severe  weather  compels. 

Just  as  we  vary  our  diet,  so  birds  eat  haws,  and 
not  many  of  them  till  driven  by  frost  and  snow.  If 
any  stay  on  till  the  early  months  of  next  year,  wood- 
pigeons  and  missel-thrushes  will  then  eat  them ; 
but  at  this  season  they  are  untouched.  Black- 
birds will  peck  open  the  hips  directly  the  frost 
comes  ;  the  hips  go  long  before  the  haws.  There 
was  a  large  crop  of  mountain-ash  berries,  every  one 
of  which  has  been  taken  by  blackbirds  and  thrushes, 
which  are  almost  as  fond  of  them  as  of  garden 
fruit. 

Blackberries  are  thick,  too  —  it  is  a  berry  year 
—  and  up  in  the  horse-chestnut  the  prickly  coated 
nuts  hang  up  in  bunches,  as  many  as  eight  on  a 
stalk.  Acorns  are  large,  but  not  so  singularly 
numerous  as  the  berries,  nor  are  hazel-nuts.  This 
provision  of  hedge-fruit  no  more  indicates  a  severe 
winter  than  a  damaged  wheat  harvest  indicates  a 
mild  one. 

There  is  something  wrong  with  elm  trees.  In 
the  early  part  of  this  summer,  not  long  after  the 
leaves  were  fairly  out  upon  them,  here  and  there  a 
branch  appeared  as  if  it  had  been  touched  with 
red-hot  iron  and  burnt  up,  all  the  leaves  withered 
and  browned  on  the  boughs.  First  one  tree  was 
— 168  — 


E3*    NUTTY    AUTUMN 


thus  affected,  then  another,  then  a  third,  till,  looking 
round  the  fields,  it  seemed  as  if  every  fourth  or 
fifth  tree  had  thus  been  burnt. 

It  began  with  the  leaves  losing  colour,  much  as 
they  do  in  autumn,  on  the  particular  bough  ;  grad- 
ually they  faded,  and  finally  became  brown  and  of 
course  dead.  As  they  did  not  appear  to  shrivel 
up,  it  looked  as  if  the  grub  or  insect,  or  whatever 
did  the  mischief,  had  attacked,  not  the  leaves,  but 
the  bough  itself.  Upon  mentioning  this  I  found 
that  it  had  been  noticed  in  elm  avenues  and  groups 
a  hundred  miles  distant,  so  that  it  is  not  a  local 
circumstance. 

As  far  as  yet  appears,  the  elms  do  not  seem 
materially  injured,  the  damage  being  outwardly 
confined  to  the  bough  attacked.  These  brown 
spots  looked  very  remarkable  just  after  the  trees 
had  become  green.  They  were  quite  distinct 
from  the  damage  caused  by  the  snow  of  October, 
1880.  The  boughs  broken  by  the  snow  had 
leaves  upon  them  which  at  once  turned  brown, 
and  in  the  case  of  the  oak  were  visible,  the  fol- 
lowing spring,  as  brown  spots  among  the  green. 
These  snapped  boughs  never  bore  leaf  again.  It 
was  the  young  fresh  green  leaves  of  the  elms,  those 
that  appeared  in  the  spring  of  1881,  that  withered 
as  if  scorched.  The  boughs  upon  which  they 
grew  had  not  been  injured  ;  they  were  small  boughs 
-169- 


ap=-=ag     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

at  the  outside  of  the  tree.  I  hear  that  this  scorch- 
ing up  of  elm  leaves  has  been  noticed  in  other 
districts  for  several  seasons. 

The  dewdrops  of  the  morning,  preserved  by  the 
mist,  which  the  sun  does  not  disperse  for  some 
hours,  linger  on  late  in  shaded  corners,  as  under 
trees,  on  drooping  blades  of  grass,  and  on  the 
petals  of  flowers.  Wild  bees  and  wasps  may 
often  be  noticed  on  these  blades  of  grass  that  are 
still  wet,  as  if  they  could  suck  some  sustenance 
from  the  dew.  Wasps  fight  hard  for  their  exist- 
ence as  the  nights  grow  cold.  Desperate  and 
ravenous,  they  will  eat  anything,  but  perish  by 
hundreds  as  the  warmth  declines. 

Dragon-flies  of  the  larger  size  are  now  very 
busy  rushing  to  and  fro  on  their  double  wings  ; 
those  who  go  blackberrying  or  nutting  cannot  fail 
to  see  them.  Only  a  very  few  days  since  —  it  does 
not  seem  a  week  —  there  was  a  chiff-chaff"  calling 
in  a  copse  as  merrily  as  in  the  spring.  This  little 
bird  is  the  first,  or  very  nearly  the  first,  to  come 
in  the  spring,  and  one  of  the  last  to  go  as  autumn 
approaches.  It  is  curious  that,  though  singled  out 
as  a  first  sign  of  spring,  the  chiff-chaff  has  never 
entered  into  the  home  life  of  the  people  like  the 
robin,  the  swallow,  or  even  the  sparrow. 

There  is  nothing  about  it  in  the  nursery  rhymes 

or  stories,  no  one  goes  out  to  listen  to  it,  children 

—  170  — 


NUTTY    AUTUMN    JEEZ 

are  not  taught  to  recognise  it,  and  grown-up  per- 
sons are  often  quite  unaware  of  it.  I  never  once 
heard  a  countryman,  a  labourer,  a  farmer,  or  any 
one  who  was  always  out-of-doors,  so  much  as 
allude  to  it.  They  never  noticed  it,  so  much  is 
every  one  the  product  of  habit. 

The  first  swallow  they  looked  for,  and  never 
missed  ;  but  they  neither  heard  nor  saw  the  chiff- 
chaff.  To  those  who  make  any  study  at  all  of 
birds  it  is,  of  course,  perfectly  familiar;  but  to  the 
bulk  of  people  it  is  unknown.  Yet  it  is  one  of  the 
commonest  of  migratory  birds,  and  sings  in  every 
copse  and  hedgerow,  using  loud,  unmistakable  notes. 
At  last,  in  the  middle  of  September,  the  chiff-chaff, 
too,  is  silent.  The  swallow  remains;  but  for  the 
rest,  the  birds  have  flocked  together,  finches,  star- 
lings, sparrows,  and  gone  forth  into  the  midst  of 
the  stubble  far  from  the  place  where  their  nests 
were  built,  and  where  they  sang,  and  chirped,  and 
whistled  so  long. 

The  swallows,  too,  are  not  without  thought  of 
going.  They  may  be  seen  twenty  in  a  row,  one 
above  the  other,  or  on  the  slanting  ropes  or  guys 
which  hold  up  the  masts  of  the  rickcloths  over  the 
still  unfinished  cornricks.  They  gather  in  rows  on 
the  ridges  of  the  tiles,  and  wisely  take  counsel  of 
each  other.  Rooks  are  up  at  the  acorns;  they 
take  them  from  the  bough,  while  the  pheasants 
—  171  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     ys^= 


come  underneath  and  pick  up  those  that  have 
fallen. 

The  partridge  coveys  are  more  numerous  and 
larger  than  they  have  been  for  several  seasons,  and 
though  shooting  has  now  been  practised  for  more 
than  a  fortnight,  as  many  as  twelve  and  seventeen 
are  still  to  be  counted  together.  They  have  more 
cover  than  usual  at  this  season,  not  only  because 
the  harvest  is  still  about,  but  because  where  cut  the 
stubble  is  so  full  of  weeds  that  when  crouching 
they  are  hidden.  In  some  fields  the  weeds  are  so 
thick  that  even  a  pheasant  can  hide. 

South  of  London  the  harvest  commenced  in  the 
last  week  of  July.  The  stubble  that  was  first  cut 
still  remains  unploughed  ;  it  is  difficult  to  find  a 
fresh  furrow,  and  I  have  only  once  or  twice  heard 
the  quick  strong  puffing  of  the  steam-plough. 
While  the  wheat  was  in  shock  it  was  a  sight  to 
see  the  wood-pigeons  at  it.  Flocks  of  hundreds 
came  perching  on  the  sheaves,  and  visiting  the 
same  field  day  after  day.  The  sparrows  have 
never  had  such  a  feast  of  grain  as  this  year. 
Whole  corners  of  wheatfields  —  they  work  more 
at  corners  —  were  cleared  out  as  clean  by  them  as 
if  the  wheat  had  been  threshed  as  it  stood. 

The  sunshine  of  the  autumn  afternoons  is  faintly 
tawny,  and  the  long  grass  by  the  wayside  takes 
from  it  a  tawny  undertone.  Some  other  colour 
—  172  — 


1E3K    NUTTY    AUTUMN    2S^gBQg>E 


than  the  green  of  each  separate  blade,  if  gathered, 
lies  among  the  bunches,  a  little,  perhaps,  like  the 
hue  of  the  narrow  pointed  leaves  of  the  reeds.  It 
is  caught  only  for  a  moment,  and  looked  at  steadily 
it  goes.  Among  the  grass,  the  hawkweeds,  one  or 
two  dandelions,  and  a  stray  buttercup,  all  yellow, 
favour  the  illusion.  By  the  bushes  there  is  a 
double  row  of  pale  buff  bryony  leaves ;  these,  too, 
help  to  increase  the  sense  of  a  secondary  colour. 

The  atmosphere  holds  the  beams,  and  abstracts 
from  them  th-eir  white  brilliance.  They  come 
slower  with  a  drowsy  light,  which  casts  a  less  de- 
fined shadow  of  the  still  oaks.  The  yellow  and 
brown  leaves  in  the  oaks,  in  the  elms,  and  the 
beeches,  in  their  turn  affect  the  rays,  and  retouch 
them  with  their  own  hue.  An  immaterial  mist 
across  the  fields  looks  like  a  cloud  of  light  hover- 
ing on  the  stubble  :  the  light  itself  made  visible. 

The  tawniness  is  indistinct,  it  haunts  the  sun- 
shine, and  is  not  to  be  fixed,  any  more  than  you 
can  say  where  it  begins  and  ends  in  the  complexion 
of  a  brunette.  Almost  too  large  for  their  cups, 
the  acorns  have  a  shade  of  the  same  hue  now 
before  they  become  brown.  As  it  withers,  the 
many-pointed  leaf  of  the  white  bryony  and  the  bine 
as  it  shrivels,  in  like  manner,  do  their  part.  The 
white  thistle-down,  which  stays  on  the  bursting 
thistles  because  there  is  no  wind  to  waft  it  away, 
—  173  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

reflects  it ;  the  white  is  pushed  aside  by  the  colour 
that  the  stained  sunbeams  bring. 

Pale  yellow  thatch  on  the  wheatricks  becomes 
a  deeper  yellow ;  broad  roofs  of  old  red  tiles 
smoulder  under  it.  What  can  you  call  it  but 
tawniness  ?  —  the  earth  sunburnt  once  more  at 
harvest  time.  Sunburnt  and  brown  —  for  it  deep- 
ens into  brown.  Brown  partridges,  and  pheasants, 
at  a  distance  brown,  their  long  necks  stretched  in 
front  and  long  tails  behind  gleaming  in  the  stubble. 
Brown  thrushes  just  venturing  to  sing  again.  Brown 
clover  hayricks;  the  bloom  on  the  third  crop 
yonder,  which  was  recently  a  bright  colour,  is  fast 
turning  brown,  too. 

Here  and  there  a  thin  layer  of  brown  leaves 
rustles  under  foot.  The  scaling  bark  on  the  lower 
part  of  the  tree  trunks  is  brown.  Dry  dock  stems, 
fallen  branches,  the  very  shadows,  are  not  black, 
but  brown.  With  red  hips  and  haws,  red  bryony 
and  woodbine  berries,  these  together  cause  the 
sense  rather  than  the  actual  existence  of  a  tawny 
tint.  It  is  pleasant  j  but  sunset  comes  so  soon, 
and  then  after  the  trees  are  in  shadow  beneath,  the 
yellow  spots  at  the  tops  of  the  elms  still  receive 
the  light  from  the  west  a  few  moments  longer. 

There  is  something  nutty  in  the  short  autumn 
day  —  shorter  than  its  duration  as  measured  by 
hours,  for  the  enjoyable  day  is  between  the  clearing 
—  174— 


NUTTY    AUTUMN 

of  the  mist  and  the  darkening  of  the  shadows. 
The  nuts  are  ripe,  and  with  them  is  associated 
wine  and  fruit.  They  are  hard  but  tasteful ;  if 
you  eat  one  you  want  ten,  and  after  ten  twenty. 
In  the  wine  there  is  a  glow,  a  spot  like  tawny 
sunlight ;  it  falls  on  your  hand  as  you  lift  the 
glass. 

They  are  never  really  nuts  unless  you  gather 
them  yourself.  Put  down  the  gun  a  minute  or 
two,  and  pull  the  boughs  this  way.  One  or  two 
may  drop  of  themselves  as  the  branch  is  shaken, 
one  among  the  brambles,  another  outwards  into 
the  stubble.  The  leaves  rustle  against  hat  and 
shoulders  ;  a  thistle  is  crushed  under  foot,  and  the 
down  at  last  released.  Bines  of  bryony  hold  the 
ankles,  and  hazel  boughs  are  stiff  and  not  ready 
to  bend  to  the  will.  This  large  brown  nut  must 
be  cracked  at  once ;  the  film  slips  off  the  kernel, 
which  is  white  underneath.  It  is  sweet. 

The  tinted  sunshine  comes  through  between  the 
tall  hazel  rods ;  there  is  a  grasshopper  calling  in  the 
sward  on  the  other  side  of  the  mound.  The  bird's 
nest  in  the  thorn-bush  looks  as  perfect  as -if  just 
made,  instead  of  having  been  left  long  long  since 
—  the  young  birds  have  flocked  into  the  stubbles. 
On  the  briar  which  holds  the  jacket  the  canker 
rose,  which  was  green  in  summer,  is  now  rosy. 
No  such  nuts  as  those  captured  with  cunning 
—  175  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

search  from  the  bough  in  the  tinted  sunlight  and 
under  the  changing  leaf. 

The  autumn  itself  is  nutty,  brown,  hard,  frosty, 
and  sweet.  Nuts  are  hard,  frosts  are  hard  ;  but 
the  one  is  sweet,  and  the  other  braces  the  strong. 
Exercise  often  wearies  in  the  spring,  and  in  the 
summer  heats  is  scarcely  to  be  faced ;  but  in 
autumn,  to  those  who  are  well,  every  step  is 
bracing  and  hardens  the  frame,  as  the  sap  is 
hardening  in  the  trees. 


-176  — 


ROUND   A    LONDON   COPSE 


*N  October  a  party  of  wood-pigeons  took  up 
their  residence  in  the  little  copse  which  has 
been  previously  mentioned.  It  stands  in  the 
angle  formed  by  two  suburban  roads,  and  the 
trees  in  it  overshadow  some  villa  gardens.  This 
copse  has  always  been  a  favourite  with  birds,  and 
it  is  not  uncommon  to  see  a  pheasant  about  it, 
sometimes  within  gun-shot  of  the  gardens,  while 
the  call  of  the  partridges  in  the  evening  may  now 
and  then  be  heard  from  the  windows.  But  though 
frequently  visited  by  wood-pigeons,  they  did  not 
seem  to  make  any  stay  till  now  when  this  party 
arrived. 

There  were  eight  of  them.  During  the  day 
they  made  excursions  into  the  stubble  fields,  and 
in  the  evening  returned  to  roost.  They  remained 
through  the  winter,  which  will  be  remembered  as 
the  most  severe  for  many  years.  Even  in  the 
sharpest  frost,  if  the  sun  shone  out,  they  called  to 
each  other  now  and  then.  On  the  first  day  of  the 
year  their  hollow  cooirig  came  from  the  copse  at 
midday. 

iz  —177  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     %~r~ 


During  the  deep  snow  which  blocked  the  roads 
and  covered  the  fields  almost  a  foot  deep,  they 
were  silent,  but  were  constantly  observed  flying  to 
and  fro.  Immediately  it  became  milder  they  re- 
commenced to  coo,  so  that  at  intervals  the  note  of 
the  wood-pigeon  was  heard  in  the  adjacent  house 
from  October,  all  through  the  winter,  till  the 
nesting  time  in  May.  Sometimes  towards  sunset 
in  the  early  spring  they  all  perched  together  before 
finally  retiring  on  the  bare,  slender  tips  of  the  tall 
birch  trees,  exposed  and  clearly  visible  against  the 
sky. 

Six  once  alighted  in  a  row  on  a  long  birch 
branch,  bending  it  down  with  their  weight  like 
a  heavy  load  of  fruit.  The  stormy  sunset  flamed 
up,  tinting  the  fields  with  momentary  red,  and 
their  hollow  voices  sounded  among  the  trees.  By 
May  they  had  paired  off,  and  each  couple  had  a 
part  of  the  copse  to  themselves.  Instead  of  avoid- 
ing the  house,  they  seemed,  on  the  contrary,  to 
come  much  nearer,  and  two  or  three  couples  built 
close  to  the  garden. 

Just  there,  the  wood  being  bare  of  undergrowth, 
there  was  nothing  to  obstruct  the  sight  but  some 
few  dead  hanging  branches,  and  the  pigeons  or 
ringdoves  could  be  seen  continually  flying  up  and 
down  from  the  ground  to  their  nests.  They  were 
so  near  that  the  darker  marking  at  the  end  of  the 
—  178- 


^Z-S  ROUND    A    LONDON    C  O  P  S  E  SEI 


tail,  as  it  was  spread  open  to  assist  the  upward 
flight  to  the  branch,  was  visible.  Outside  the 
garden  gate,  and  not  more  than  twenty  yards 
distant,  there  stood  three  young  spruce  firs,  at  the 
edge  of  the  copse,  but  without  the  boundary.  To 
the  largest  of  these  one  of  the  pigeons  came  now 
and  then  ;  he  was  half  inclined  to  choose  it  for  his 
nest. 

The  noise  of  their  wings  as  they  rose  and 
threshed  their  strong  feathers  together  over  the 
tops  of  the  trees  was  often  heard,  and  while  in  the 
garden  one  might  be  watched  approaching  from  a 
distance,  swift  as  the  wind,  then  suddenly  half- 
closing  his  wings  and  shooting  forwards,  he  alighted 
among  the  boughs.  Their  coo  is  not  in  any  sense 
tuneful  ;  yet  it  has  a  pleasant  association  ;  for  the 
ringdove  is  pre-eminently  the  bird  of  the  woods 
and  forests,  and  rightly  named  the  wood-pigeon. 
Yet  though  so  associated  with  the  deepest  and 
most  lonely  woods,  here  they  were  close  to  the 
house  and  garden,  constantly  heard,  and  almost 
always  visible  ;  and  London,  too,  so  near.  They 
seemed  almost  as  familiar  as  the  sparrows  and 
starlings. 

These  pigeons  were  new  inhabitants;  but  turtle- 

doves   had    built   in    the    copse   since   I  knew  it. 

They  were  late  coming  the  last  spring  I  watched 

them  ;    but,  when    they    did,  chose  a  spot    much 

—  179  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

nearer  the  house  than  usual.  The  turtle-dove  has 
a  way  of  gurgling  the  soft  vowels  "  oo "  in  the 
throat.  Swallows  do  not  make  a  summer,  but 
when  the  turtle-dove  coos  summer  is  certainly 
come.  One  afternoon  one  of  the  pair  flew  up 
into  a  hornbeam  which  stood  beside  the  garden  not 
twenty  yards  at  farthest.  At  first  he  sat  upright 
on  the  branch  watching  me  below,  then  turned  and 
fluttered  down  to  the  nest  beneath. 

While  this  nesting  was  going  on  I  could  hear 
five  different  birds  at  once  either  in  the  garden  or 
from  any  of  the  windows.  The  doves  cooed,  and 
every  now  and  then  their  gentle  tones  were  over- 
powered by  the  loud  call  of  the  wood-pigeons.  A 
cuckoo  called  from  the  top  of  the  tallest  birch,  and 
a  nightingale  and  a  brook-sparrow  (or  sedge- 
reedling)  were  audible  together  in  the  common  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  road.  It  is  remarkable  that 
one  season  there  seems  more  of  one  kind  of  bird 
than  the  next.  The  year  alluded  to,  for  instance, 
in  this  copse  was  the  wood-pigeons'  year.  But 
one  season  previously  the  copse  seemed  to  belong 
to  the  missel-thrushes. 

Early  in  the  March  mornings  I  used  to  wake 
as  the  workmen's  trains  went  rumbling  by  to  the 
great  City,  to  see  on  the  ceiling  by  the  window  a 
streak  of  sunlight,  tinted  orange  by  the  vapour 
through  which  the  level  beams  had  passed.  Some- 
— 180  — 


ROUND     A    LONDON     COPSES- 


thing  in  the  sense  of  morning  lifts  the  heart  up  to 
the  sun.  The  light,  the  air,  the  waving  branches 
speak ;  the  earth  and  life  seem  boundless  at  that 
moment.  In  this  it  is  the  same  on  the  verge  of 
the  artificial  City  as  when  the  rays  come  stream- 
ing through  the  pure  atmosphere  of  the  Downs. 
While  thus  thinking,  suddenly  there  rang  out  three 
clear,  trumpet-like  notes  from  a  tree  at  the  edge  of 
the  copse  by  the  garden.  A  softer  song  followed, 
and  then  again  the  same  three  notes,  whose  wild 
sweetness  echoed  through  the  wood. 

The  voice  of  the  missel-thrush  sounded  not  only 
close  at  hand  and  in  the  room,  but  repeated  itself 
as  it  floated  away,  as  the  bugle-call  does.  He  is 
the  trumpeter  of  spring  :  Lord  of  March,  his  proud 
call  challenges  the  woods ;  there  are  none  who  can 
answer.  Listen  for  the  missel-thrush  :  when  he 
sings  the  snow  may  fall,  the  rain  drift,  but  not  for 
long;  the  violets  are  near  at  hand.  The  nest  was 
in  a  birch  visible  from  the  garden,  and  that  season 
seemed  to  be  the  missel-thrush's.  Another  'year 
the  cuckoos  had  possession. 

There  is  a  detached  ash  tree  in  the  field  by  the 
copse  ;  it  stands  apart,  and  about  sixty  or  seventy 
yards  from  the  garden.  A  cuckoo  came  to  this 
ash  every  morning,  and  called  there  for  an  hour  at 
a  time,  his  notes  echoing  along  the  building,  one 
following  the  other  as  wavelets  roll  on  the  summer 
— 181  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

sands.  After  a  while  two  more  used  to  appear, 
and  then  there  was  a  chase  round  the  copse,  up  to 
the  tallest  birch,  and  out  to  the  ash  tree  again. 
This  went  on  day  after  day,  and  was  repeated 
every  evening.  Flying  from  the  ash  to  the  copse 
and  returning,  the  birds  were  constantly  in  sight ; 
they  sometimes  passed  over  the  house,  and  the  call 
became  so  familiar  that  it  was  not  regarded  any 
more  than  the  chirp  of  a  sparrow.  Till  the  very 
last  the  cuckoos  remained  there,  and  never  ceased 
to  be  heard  till  they  left  to  cross  the  seas. 

That  was  the  cuckoos'  season ;  next  spring 
they  returned  again,  but  much  later  than  usual,  and 
did  not  call  so  much,  nor  were  they  seen  so  often 
while  they  were  there.  One  was  calling  in  the 
copse  on  the  evening  of  the  6th  of  May  as  late  as 
half-past  eight,  while  the  moon  was  shining.  But 
they  were  not  so  prominent ;  and  as  for  the  missel- 
thrushes,  I  did  not  hear  them  at  all  in  the  copse. 
It  was  the  wood-pigeons'  year.  Thus  the  birds 
come  in  successioa  and  reign  by  turns. 

Even  the  starlings  vary,  regular  as  they  are  by 
habit.  This  season  (1881)  none  have  whistled 
on  the  house-top.  In  previous  years  they  have 
always  come,  and  only  the  preceding  spring  a  pair 
filled  the  gutter  with  the  materials  of  their  nest. 
Long  after  they  had  finished  a  storm  descended,  and 
the  rain,  thus  dammed  up  and  unable  to  escape, 
—  182  — 


ROUND    A    LONDON    COPSE  W^^K 

flooded  the  corner.  It  cost  half  a  sovereign  to 
repair  the  damage,  but  it  did  not  matter;  the  star- 
lings had  been  happy.  It  has  been  a  disappoint- 
ment this  year  not  to  listen  to  their  eager  whistling 
and  the  flutter  of  their  wings  as  they  vibrate  them 
rapidly  while  hovering  a  moment  before  entering 
their  cavern.  A  pair  of  house-martins,  too,  built 
under  the  eaves  close  to  the  starling's  nest,  and 
they  also  disappointed  me  by  not  returning  this 
season,  though  the  nest  was  not  touched.  Some 
fate,  I  fear,  overtook  both  starlings  and  house- 
martins. 

Another  time  it  was  the  season  of  the  lapwings. 
Towards  the  end  of  November  (1881),  there 
appeared  a  large  flock  of  peewits,  or  green  plovers, 
which  flock  passed  most  of  the  day  in  a  broad, 
level  ploughed  field  of  great  extent.  At  this  time 
I  estimated  their  number  as  about  four  hundred ; 
far  exceeding  any  flock  I  had  previously  seen  in 
the  neighbourhood.  Fresh  parties  joined  the  main 
body  continually,  until  by  December  there  could 
not  have  been  less  than  a  thousand.  Still  more 
and  more  arrived,  and  by  the  first  of  January  (i  882) 
even  this  number  was  doubled,  and  there  were 
certainly  fully  two  thousand  there.  It  is  the  habit 
of  green  plovers  to  all  move  at  once,  to  rise  from 
the  ground  simultaneously,  to  turn  in  the  air,  or  to 
descend  —  and  all  so  regular  that  their  very  wings 
-183- 


NATURE   NEAR    LONDON 

seem  to  flap  together.  The  effect  of  such  a  vast 
body  of  white-breasted  birds  uprising  as  one  from 
the  dark  ploughed  earth  was  very  remarkable. 

When  they  passed  overhead  the  air  sang  like  the 
midsummer  hum  with  the  shrill  noise  of  beating 
wings.  When  they  wheeled  a  light  shot  down  re- 
flected from  their  white  breasts,  so  that  people 
involuntarily  looked  up  to  see  what  it  could  be. 
The  sun  shone  on  them,  so  that  at  a  distance  the 
flock  resembled  a  cloud  brilliantly  illuminated.  In 
an  instant  they  turned  and  the  cloud  was  dark- 
ened. Such  a  great  flock  had  not  been  seen  in  that 
district  in  the  memory  of  man. 

There  did  not  seem  any  reason  for  their  con- 
gregating in  this  manner,  unless  it  was  the  mild- 
ness of  the  winter,  but  winters  had  been  mild 
before  without  such  a  display.  The  birds  as  a 
mass  rarely  left  this  one  particular  field — they 
voyaged  round  in  the  air  and  settled  again  in  the 
same  place.  Some  few  used  to  spend  hours  with 
the  sheep  in  a  meadow,  remaining  there  till  dusk, 
till  the  mist  hid  them,  and  their  cry  sounded  afar 
in  the  gloom.  They  stayed  all  through  the  winter, 
breaking  up  as  the  spring  approached.  By  March 
the  great  flock  had  dispersed. 

The  winter  was  very  mild.  There  were  butter- 
cups, avens,  and  white  nettles  in  flower  on  De- 
cember 3  ist.  On  January  yth,  there  were  briar  buds 
-184- 


ROUND    A    LONDON    COPSE 

opening  into  young  leaf;  on  the  Qth  a  dandelion  in 
flower,  and  an  arum  up.  A  grey  veronica  was  try- 
ing to  open  flower  on  the  nth,  and  hawthorn  buds 
were  so  far  open  that  the  green  was  visible  on  the 
1 6th.  On  February  I4th  a  yellow-hammer  sang, 
and  brambles  had  put  forth  green  buds.  Two 
wasps  went  by  in  the  sunshine.  The  I4th  is  Old 
Candlemas,  supposed  to  rule  the  weather  for  some 
time  after.  Old  Candlemas  was  very  fine  and 
sunny  till  night,  when  a  little  rain  fell.  The 
summer  that  followed  was  cold  and  ungenial,  with 
easterly  winds,  though  fortunately  it  brightened  up 
somewhat  for  the  harvest.  A  chaffinch  sang  on 
the  2Oth  of  February :  all  these  are  very  early 
dates. 

One  morning  while  I  was  watching  these  plovers, 
a  man  with  a  gun  got  over  a  gate  into  the  road. 
Another  followed,  apparently  without  a  weapon, 
but  as  the  first  proceeded  to  take  his  gun  to  pieces, 
and  put  the  barrel  in  one  pocket  at  the  back  of  his 
coat,  and  the  stock  in  a  second,  it  is  possible  that 
there  was  another  gun  concealed.  The  coolness 
with  which  the  fellow  did  this  on  the  highway 
was  astounding,  but  his  impudence  was  surpassed 
by  his  stupidity,  for  at  the  very  moment  he  hid 
the  gun  there  was  a  rabbit  out  feeding  within  easy 
range,  which  neither  of  these  men  observed. 

The  boughs  of  a  Scotch  fir  nearly  reached  to 
-185- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

one  window.  If  I  recollect  rightly,  the  snow 
was  on  the  ground  in  the  early  part  of  the  year, 
when  a  golden-crested  wren  came  to  it.  He 
visited  it  two  or  three  times  a  week  for  some  time ; 
his  golden  crest  distinctly  seen  among  the  dark 
green  needles  of  the  fir. 

There  are  squirrels  in  the  copse,  and  now  and 
then  one  comes  within  sight.  In  the  summer 
there  was  one  in  the  boughs  of  an  oak  close  to  the 
garden.  Once,  and  once  only,  a  pair  of  them 
ventured  into  the  garden  itself,  deftly  passing  along 
the  wooden  palings  and  exploring  a  guelder  rose- 
bush. The  pheasants  which  roost  in  the  copse 
wander  to  it  from  distant  preserves.  One  morning 
in  spring,  before  the  corn  was  up,  there  was  one 
in  a  field  by  the  copse  calmly  walking  along  the 
ridge  of  a  furrow  so  near  that  the  ring  round  his 
neck  was  visible  from  the  road. 

In  the  early  part  of  last  autumn,  while  the 
acorns  were  dropping  from  the  oaks  and  the  berries 
ripe,  I  twice  disturbed  a  pheasant  from  the  garden 
of  a  villa  not  far  distant.  There  were  some  oaks 
hard  by,  and  from  under  these  the  bird  had  wan- 
dered into  the  quiet  sequestered  garden.  The  oak 
in  the  copse  on  which  the  squirrel  was  last  seen 
is  peculiar  for  bearing  oak-apples  earlier  than  any 
other  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  there  are  often 
half  a  dozen  of  them  on  the  twigs  on  the  trunk 
— 186  — 


ROUND    A    LONDON     COPSE   «= 


before  there  is  one  anywhere  else.  The  famous 
snowstorm  of  October,  1880,  snapped  off  the 
leader  or  top  of  this  oak. 

Jays  often  come,  magpies  more  rarely,  to  the 
copse ;  as  for  the  lesser  birds  they  all  visit  it.  In 
the  hornbeams  at  the  verge  blackcaps  sing  in 
spring  a  sweet  and  cultured  song,  which  does  not 
last  many  seconds.  They  visit  a  thick  bunch  of 
ivy  in  the  garden.  By  these  hornbeam  trees  a 
streamlet  flows  out  of  the  copse,  crossed  at  the  hedge 
by  a  pole,  to  prevent  cattle  straying  in.  The  pole 
is  a  robin's  perch.  He  is  always  there,  or  near;  he 
was  there  all  through  the  terrible  winter,  all  the 
summer,  and  he  is  there  now. 

There  are  a  few  inches,  a  narrow  strip  of  sand, 
beside  the  streamlet  under  this  pole.  Whenever  a 
wagtail  dares  to  come  to  this  sand  the  robin  im- 
mediately appears  and  drives  him  away.  He  will 
bear  no  intrusion.  A  pair  of  butcher-birds  built 
very  near  this  spot  one  spring,  but  afterwards  ap- 
peared to  remove  to  a  place  where  there  is  more 
furze,  but  beside  the  same  hedge.  The  determina- 
tion and  fierce  resoluton  of  the  shrike,  or  butcher- 
bird, despite  his  small  size,  is  most  marked.  '  One 
day  a  shrike  darted  down  from  a  hedge  just  before 
me,  not  a  yard  in  front,  and  dashed  a  dandelion  to 
the  ground. 

His  claws  clasped  the  stalk,  and  the  flower  was 
-187- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

crushed  in  a  moment ;  he  came  with  such  force  as 
to  partly  lose  his  balance.  His  prey  was  probably 
a  humble-bee  which  had  settled  on  the  dandelion. 
The  shrike's  head  resembles  that  of  the  eagle  in 
miniature.  From  his  favourite  branch  he  surveys 
the  grass,  and  in  an  instant  pounces  on  his  victim. 

There  is  a  quiet  lane  leading  out  of  one  of  the 
roads  which  have  been  mentioned  down  into  a 
wooded  hollow,  where  there  are  two  ponds,  one 
on  each  side  of  the  lane.  Standing  here  one 
morning  in  the  early  summer,  suddenly  a  king- 
fisher came  shooting  straight  towards  me,  and 
swerving  a  little  passed  within  three  yards ;  his 
blue  wings,  his  ruddy  front,  the  white  streak  be- 
side his  neck,  and  long  bill  were  visible  for  a 
moment ;  then  he  was  away,  straight  over  the 
meadows,  till  he  cleared  a  distant  hedge  and  disap- 
peared. He  was  probably  on  his  way  to  visit  his 
nest,  for  though  living  by  the  streams  kingfishers 
often  have  their  nest  a  considerable  way  from 
water. 

Two  years  had  gone  by  since  I  saw  one  here 
before,  perched  then  on  the  trunk  of  a  willow 
which  overhangs  one  of  the  ponds.  After  that 
came  the  severe  winters,  and  it  seemed  as  if  the 
kingfishers  were  killed  off,  for  they  are  often  de- 
stroyed by  frost,  so  that  the  bird  came  unexpectedly 
from  the  shadow  of  the  trees,  across  the  lane,  and 
— 188  — 


ROUND    A    LONDON    COPSE   s~ 


out  into  the  sunshine  over  the  field.  It  was  a 
great  pleasure  to  see  a  kingfisher  again. 

This  hollow  is  the  very  place  of  singing  birds  in 
June.  Up  in  the  oaks  blackbirds  whistle  —  you 
do  not  often  see  them,  for  they  seek  the  leafy  top 
branches,  but  once  now  and  then  while  fluttering 
across  to  another  perch.  The  blackbird's  whistle 
is  very  human,  like  some  one  playing  the  flute;  an 
uncertain  player  now  drawing  forth  a  bar  of  a 
beautiful  melody  and  then  losing  it  again.  He 
does  not  know  what  quiver  or  what  turn  his  note 
will  take  before  it  ends  ;  the  note  leads  him  and 
completes  itself.  His  music  strives  to  express  his 
keen  appreciation  of  the  loveliness  of  the  days,  the 
golden  glory  of  the  meadow,  the  light,  and  the 
luxurious  shadows. 

Such  thoughts  can  only  be  expressed  in  frag- 
ments, like  a  sculptor's  chips  thrown  off  as  the 
inspiration  seizes  him,  not  mechanically  sawn  to  a 
set  line.  Now  and  again  the  blackbird  feels  the 
beauty  of  the  time,  the  large  white  daisy  stars,  the 
grass  with  yellow-dusted  tips,  the  air  which  comes 
so  softly  unperceived  by  any  precedent  rustle  of 
the  hedge.  He  feels  the  beauty  of  the  time,  and 
he  must  say  it.  His  notes  come  like  wild  flowers 
not  sown  in  order.  There  is  not  an  oak  here  in 
June  without  a  blackbird. 

Thrushes  sing  louder  here  than  anywhere  else; 
-189- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     s^a* 

they  really  seem  to  sing  louder,  and  they  are  all 
around.  Thrushes  appear  to  vary  their  notes 
with  the  period  of  the  year,  singing  louder  in  the 
summer,  and  in  the  mild  days  of  October  when  the 
leaves  lie  brown  and  buff  on  the  sward  under  their 
perch  more  plaintively  and  delicately.  \Varblers 
and  willow-wrens  sing  in  the  hollow  in  June,  all 
out  of  sight  among  the  trees  —  they  are  easily 
hidden  by  a  leaf. 

At  that  time  the  ivy  leaves  which  flourish  up  to 
the  very  tops  of  the  oaks  are  so  smooth  with 
enamelled  surface,  that  high  up,  as  the  wind  moves 
them,  they  reflect  the  sunlight  and  scintillate. 
Greenfinches  in  the  elms  never  cease  love-making  ; 
and  love-making  needs  much  soft  talking.  A 
nightingale  in  a  bush  sings  so  loud  the  hawthorn 
seems  too  small  for  the  vigour  of  the  song.  He  will 
let  you  stand  at  the  very  verge  of  the  bough ;  but 
it  is  too  near,  his  voice  is  sweeter  across  the  field. 

There  are  still,  in  October,  a  few  red  apples  on 
the  boughs  of  the  trees  in  a  little  orchard  beside 
the  same  road.  It  is  a  natural  orchard  —  left  to 
itself  —  therefore  there  is  always  something  to  see 
in  it.  The  palings  by  the  road  are  falling,  and  are 
held  up  chiefly  by  the  brambles  about  them  and  the 
ivy  that  has  climbed  up.  Trees  stand  on  the 
right  and  trees  on  the  left ;  there  is  a  tall  spruce 
fir  at  the  back. 

—  190  — 


ROUND    A    LONDON    COPSE 

The  apple  trees  are  not  set  in  straight  lines  : 
they  were  at  first,  but  some  have  died  away  and 
left  an  irregularity ;  the  trees  lean  this  way  and 
that,  and  they  are  scarred  and  marked  as  it  were 
with  lichen  and  moss.  It  is  the  home  of  birds. 
A  blackbird  had  its  nest  this  spring  in  the  bushes 
on  the  left  side,  a  nightingale  another  in  the  bushes 
on  the  right,  and  there  the  nightingale  sang  under 
the  shadow  of  a  hornbeam  for  hours  every  morning 
while  "  City "  men  were  hurrying  past  to  their 
train. 

The  sharp  relentless  shrike  that  used  to  live  by 
the  copse  moved  up  here,  and  from  that  very  horn- 
beam perpetually  darted  across  the  road  upon  in- 
sects in  the  fern  and  furze  opposite.  He  never 
entered  the  orchard  ;  it  is  often  noticed  that  birds 
(and  beasts  of  prey)  do  not  touch  creatures  that 
build  near  their  own  nests.  .  Several  thrushes  re- 
side in  the  orchard  ;  swallows  frequently  twittered 
from  the  tops  of  the  apple  trees.  As  the  grass  is 
so  safe  from  intrusion,  one  of  the  earliest  butter- 
cups flowers  here.  Bennets  —  the  flower  of  the 
grass  —  come  up;  the  first  bennet  is  to  green 
things  what  the  first  swallow  is  to  the  breathing 
creatures  of  summer. 

On  a  bare  bough,  but  lately  scourged  by  the 
east  wind,  the  apple  bloom  appears,  set  about  with 
the  green  of  the  hedges  and  the  dark  spruce  be- 
—  191  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

hind.  White  horse-chestnut  blooms  stand  up  in 
their  stately  way,  lighting  the  path  which  is  strewn 
with  the  green  moss-like  flowers  fallen  from  the 
oaks.  There  is  an  early  bush  of  May.  When 
the  young  apples  take  form  and  shape,  the  grass  is 
so  high  even  the  buttercups  are  overtopped  by  it. 
Along  the  edge  of  the  roadside  footpath,  where  the 
dandelions,  plantains,  and  grasses  are  thick  with 
seed,  the  greenfinches  come  down  and  feed. 

Now  the  apples  are  red  that  are  left,  and  they 
hang  on 'boughs  from  which  the  leaves  are  blown 
by  every  gust.  But  it  does  not  matter  when  you 
pass,  summer  or  autumn,  this  little  orchard  has 
always  something  to  offer.  It  is  not  neglected  — 
it  is  true  attention  to  leave  it  to  itself. 

Left  to  itself,  so  that  the  grass  reaches  its  fullest 
height ;  so  that  bryony  vines  trail  over  the  bushes 
and  stay  till  the  berries  fall  of  their  own  ripeness ; 
so  that  the  brown  leaves  lie  and  are  not  swept 
away  unless  the  wind  chooses;  so  that  all  things 
follow  their  own  course  and  bent.  The  hedge 
opposite  in  autumn,  when  reapers  are  busy  with 
the  sheaves,  is  white  with  the  large  trumpet  flowers 
of  the  great  wild  convolvulus  (or  bindweed).  The 
hedge  there  seems  made  of  convolvulus  then  ; 
nothing  but  convolvulus,  and  nowhere  else  does  the 
flower  flourish  so  strongly  ;  the  bines  remain  till 
the  following  spring. 

-192  — 


<K    ROUND    A    LONDON    C  O  P  S  E  ^ 


Without  a  path  through  it,  without  a  border  or 
parterre,  unvisited,  and  left  alone,  the  orchard  has 
acquired  an  atmosphere  of  peace  and  stillness, 
such  as  grows  up  in  woods  and  far-away  lonely 
places.  It  is  so  commonplace  and  unpretentious 
that  passers-by  do  not  notice  it ;  it  is  merely  a  cor- 
ner of  meadow  dotted  with  apple  trees  —  a  place 
that  needs  frequent  glances  and  a  dreamy  mood  to 
understand  it  as  the  birds  understand  it.  They  are 
always  there.  In  spring,  thrushes  move  along 
rustling  the  fallen  leaves  as  they  search  among  the 
arum  sheaths  unrolling  beside  the  sheltering  pal- 
ings. There  are  nooks  and  corners  whence  shy 
creatures  can  steal  out  from  the  shadow  and  be 
happy.  There  is  a  loving  streak  of  sunshine 
somewhere  among  the  tree  trunks. 

Though  the  copse  is  so  much  frequented  the 
migrant  birds  (which  have  now  for  the  most  part 
gone)  next  spring  will  not  be  seen  nor  heard  there 
first.  With  one  exception,  it  is  not  the  first 
place  to  find  them.  The  cuckoos  which  come  to 
the  copse  do  nor  call  till  some  time  after  others 
have  been  heard  in  the  neighbourhood.  There 
is  another  favourite  copse  a  mile  distant,  and  the 
cuckoo  can  be  heard  near  it  quite  a  week  earlier. 
This  last  spring  there  were  two  days'  difference  — 
a  marked  interval. 

The  nightingale  that  sings  in  the  bushes  on  the 

13  -193- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

common  immediately  opposite  the  copse  is  late  in 
the  same  manner.  There  is  a  mound  about  half 
a  mile  farther,  where  a  nightingale  always  sings 
first,  before  all  the  others  of  the  district.  The 
one  on  the  common  began  to  sing  last  spring 
a  full  week  later.  On  the  contrary,  the  sedge- 
reedling,  which  chatters  side  by  side  with  the 
nightingale,  is  the  first  of  all  his  kind  to  return 
to  the  neighbourhood.  The  same  thing  happens 
season  after  season,  so  that  when  once  you  know 
these  places  you  can  always  hear  the  birds  several 
days  before  other  people. 

\Vith  flowers  it  is  the  same ;  the  lesser  celan- 
dine, the  marsh  marigold,  the  silvery  cardamine, 
appear  first  in  one  particular  spot,  and  may  be 
gathered  there  before  a  petal  has  opened  elsewhere. 
The  first  swallow  in  this  district  generally  appears 
round  about  a  pond  near  some  farm  buildings. 
Birds  care  nothing  for  appropriate  surroundings. 
Hearing  a  titlark  singing  his  loudest,  I  found  him 
perched  on  the  rim  of  a  tub  placed  for  horses 
to  drink  from. 

This  very  pond  by  which  the  first  swallow 
appears  is  muddy  enough,  and  surrounded  with 
poached  mud,  for  a  herd  of  cattle  drink  from  and 
stand  in  it.  An  elm  overhangs  it,  and  on  the 
lower  branches,  which  are  dead,  the  swallows  perch 
and  sing  just  over  the  muddy  water.  A  sow  lies 
—  194  — 


ROUND    A    LONDON    COPSE 

in  the  mire.  But  the  sweet  swallows  sing  on 
softly  ;  they  do  not  see  the  wallowing  animal,  the 
mud,  the  brown  water;  they  see  only  the  sunshine, 
the  golden  buttercups,  and  the  blue  sky  of  summer. 
This  is  the  true  way  to  look  at  this  beautiful 
earth. 


_I95_ 


MAGPIE   FIELDS 


were  ten  magpies  together  on 
the  Qth  of  September,  1881,  in  a  field 
of  clover  beside  a  road  but  twelve 
miles  from  Charing  Cross.  Ten  mag- 
pies would  be  a  large  number  to  see  at  once  any- 
where in  the  south,  and  not  a  little  remarkable  so 
near  town.  The  magpies  were  doubtless  young 
birds  which  had  packed,  and  were  bred  in  the  nests 
in  the  numerous  elms  of  the  hedgerows  about  there. 
At  one  time  they  were  scattered  over  the  field, 
their  white  and  black  colours  dotted  everywhere, 
so  that  they  seemed  to  hold  entire  possession  of  it. 
Then  a  knot  of  them  gathered  together,  more 
came  up,  and  there  they  were  all  ten  fluttering  and 
restlessly  moving.  After  a  while  they  passed  on 
into  the  next  field,  which  was  stubble,  and,  collected 
in  a  bunch,  were  even  more  conspicuous  there,  as 
the  stubble  did  not  conceal  them  so  much  as  the 
clover.  That  was  on  the  Qth  of  September ;  by 
the  end  of  the  month  weeds  had  grown  so  high 
that  the  stubble  itself  in  that  field  had  disappeared, 
and  from  a  distance  it  looked  like  pasture.  In 
-196- 


MAGPIE    FIELDS 


the  stubble  the  magpies  remained  till  I  could  watch 
them  no  longer. 

A  short  time  afterwards,  on  the  iyth  of  Septem- 
ber, looking  over  the  gateway  of  an  adjacent  field 
which  had  been  wheat,  then  only  recently  carried, 
a  pheasant  suddenly  appeared  rising  up  out  of  the 
stubble ;  and  then  a  second,  and  a  third  and  fourth. 
So  tall  were  the  weeds  that,  in  a  crouching  pos- 
ture, at  the  first  glance  they  were  not  visible ; 
then  as  they  fed,  stretching  their  necks  out,  only 
the  top  of  their  backs  could  be  seen.  Presently 
some  more  raised  their  heads  in  another  part  of 
the  field,  then  two  more  on  the  left  side,  and  one 
under  an  oak  by  the  hedge,  till  seventeen  were 
counted. 

These  seventeen  pheasants  were  evidently  all 
young  birds,  which  had  wandered  from  covers, 
some  distance,  too,  for  there  is  no  preserve  within 
a  mile  at  least.  Seven  or  eight  came  near  each 
other,  forming  a  flock,  but  just  out  of  gunshot 
from  the  road.  They  were  all  extremely  busy 
feeding  in  the  stubble.  Next  day  half  a  dozen  or 
so  still  remained,  but  the  rest  had  scattered;  some 
had  gone  across  to  an  acre  of  barley  yet  standing 
in  a  corner;  some  had  followed  the  dropping 
acorns  along  the  hedge  into  another  piece  of 
stubble  ;  others  went  into  a  breadth  of  turnips. 

Day  by  day  their  numbers  diminished  as  they 
—  197  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

parted,  till  only  three  or  four  could  be  seen.  Such 
a  sortie  from  cover  is  the  standing  risk  of  the  game- 
preserver.  Towards  the  end  of  September,  on 
passing  a  barley-field,  still  partly  uncut,  and  with 
some  spread,  there  was  a  loud,  confused,  murmur- 
ing sound  up  in  the  trees,  like  that  caused  by  the 
immense  flocks  of  starlings  which  collect  in  winter. 
The  sound,  however,  did  not  seem  quite  the  same, 
and  upon  investigation  it  turned  out  to  be  an  in- 
credible number  of  sparrows,  whose  voices  were 
audible  across  the  field. 

They  presently  flew  out  from  the  hedge,  and 
alighted  on  one  of  the  rows  of  cut  barley,  making 
it  suddenly  brown  from  one  end  to  the  other. 
There  must  have  been  thousands;  they  continually 
flew  up,  swept  round  with  a  whirring  of  wings, 
and  settled,  again  darkening  the  spot  they  chose. 
Now,  as  the  sparrow  eats  from  morning  to  night 
without  ceasing,  say  for  about  twelve  hours,  and 
picks  up  a  grain  of  corn  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye,  it  would  be  a  moderate  calculation  to  allow 
this  vast  flock  two  sacks  a  week.  Among  them 
there  was  one  white  sparrow  —  his  white  wings 
showed  distinctly  among  the  brown  flock.  In  the 
most  remote  country  I  never  observed  so  great  a 
number  of  these  birds  at  once ;  the  loss  to  the 
farmers  must  be  considerable. 

There  were  a  few  fine  days  at  the  end  of  the 
-198- 


MAGPIE    FIELDS 


month.  One  afternoon  there  rose  up  a  flock  of 
rooks  out  of  a  large  oak  tree  standing  separate  in 
the  midst  of  an  arable  field  which  was  then  at  last 
being  ploughed.  This  oak  is  a  favourite  with  the 
rooks  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  they  have  been 
noticed  to  visit  it  more  frequently  than  others. 
Up  they  went,  perhaps  a  hundred  of  them,  rooks 
and  jackdaws  together  cawing  and  soaring  round 
and  round  till  they  reached  a  great  height.  At  that 
level,  as  if  they  had  attained  their  ball-room,  they 
swept  round  and  round  on  outstretched  wings,  de- 
scribing circles  and  ovals  in  the  air.  Caw-caw  ; 
jack-juck-juck  !  Thus  dancing  in  slow  measure, 
they  enjoyed  the  sunshine,  full  from  their  feast 
of  acorns. 

Often  as  one  was  sailing  on  another  approached 
and  interfered  with  his  course  when  they  wheeled 
about  each  other.  Soon  one  dived.  Holding  his 
wings  at  full  stretch  and  rigid,  he  dived  headlong, 
rotating  as  he  fell  till  his  beak  appeared  as  if  it 
would  be  driven  into  the  ground  by  the  violence 
of  the  descent.  But  within  twenty  feet  of  the 
earth  he  recovered  himself  and  rose  again.  Most 
of  these  dives,  for  they  all  seemed  to  dive  in  turn, 
were  made  over  the  favourite  oak,  and  they  did  not 
rise  till  they  had  gone  down  to  its  branches.  Many 
appeared  about  to  throw  themselves  against  the 
boughs. 

—  '99  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     251^ 


Whether  they  wheeled  round  in  circles,  or 
whether  they  dived,  or  simply  sailed  onward  in  the 
air,  they  did  it  in  pairs.  As  one  was  sweeping 
round  another  came  to  him.  As  one  sailed  straight 
on  a  second  closely  followed.  After  one  had 
dived  the  other  soon  followed,  or  waited  till  he  had 
come  up  and  rejoined  him.  They  danced  and 
played  in  couples  as  if  they  were  paired  already. 
Some  left  the  main  body  and  steered  right  away 
from  their  friends,  but  turned  and  came  back,  and 
in  about  half  an  hour  they  all  descended  and 
settled  in  the  oak  from  which  they  had  risen.  A 
loud  cawing  and  jack-juck-jucking  accompanied 
this  sally. 

The  same  day  it  could  be  noticed  how  the 
shadows  of  the  elms  cast  by  the  bright  sunshine  on 
the  grass,  which  is  singularly  fresh  and  green  this 
autumn,  had  a  velvety  appearance.  The  dark 
shadow  on  the  fresh  green  looked  soft  as  velvet. 
The  waters  of  the  brook  had  become  darker  now  ; 
they  flowed  smooth,  and  at  the  brink  reflected  a 
yellow  spray  of  horse-chestnut.  The  sunshine 
made  the  greenfinches  call,  the  chaffinches  utter 
their  notes,  and  a  few  thrushes  sing  ;  but  the  latter 
were  soon  silenced  by  frosts  in  the  early  morning, 
which  turned  the  fern  to  so  deep  a  reddish  brown 
as  to  approach  copper. 

At  the  beginning  of  October  a  herd  of  cows  and 


MAGPIE    FIELDS 

a  small  flock  of  sheep  were  turned  into  the  clover 
field  to  eat  off  the  last  crop,  the  preceding  crops 
havi-ng  been  mown.  There  were  two  or  more 
magpies  among  the  sheep  every  day ;  magpies, 
starlings,  rooks,  crows,  and  wagtails  follow  sheep 
about.  The  clover  this  year  seems  to  have  been 
the  best  crop,  though  in  the  district  alluded  to  it 
has  not  been  without  an  enemy.  Early  in  July, 
after  the  first  crop  had  been  mown  a  short  time, 
there  came  up  a  few  dull  yellowish-looking  stalks 
among  it.  These  increased  so  much  that  one 
field  became  yellowish  all  over,  the  stalks  over- 
topped the  clover,  and  overcame  its  green. 

It  was  the  lesser  broom  rape,  and  hardly  a  clover 
plant  escaped  this  parasitic  growth.  By  carefully 
removing  the  earth  with  a  pocket-knife  the  two 
could  be  dug  up  together.  From  the  roots  of  the 
clover  a  slender  filament  passes  underground  to  the 
somewhat  bulbous  root  of  the  broom  rape,  so  that 
although  they  stand  apart  and  appear  separate 
plants,  they  are  connected  under  the  surface. 
The  stalk  of  the  broom  rape  is  clammy  to  touch, 
and  is  an  unwholesome  greenish  yellow,  a  dull  un- 
decided colour;  if  cut,  it  is  nearly  the  same  texture 
throughout.  There  are  numerous  dull  purplish 
flowers  at  the  top,  but  it  has  no  leaves.  It  is  not 
a  pleasant-looking  plant  —  a  strange  and  unusual 
growth. 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     2c~Z3g 

One  particular  field  was  completely  covered  with 
it,  and  scarcely  a  clover  field  in  the  neighbourhood 
was  perfectly  free.  But  though  drawing  the  sap 
from  the  clover  plants  the  latter  grew  so  vigorously 
that  little  damage  was  apparent.  After  a  while  the 
broom  rape  disappeared,  but  the  clover  shot  up 
and  afforded  good  forage.  So  late  as  the  beginning 
of  October  a  few  poppies  flowered  in  it,  their 
bright  scarlet  contrasting  vividly  with  the  green 
around,  and  the  foliage  above  fast  turning  brown. 

The  flight  of  the  jay  much  resembles  that  of 
the  magpie,  the  same  jaunty,  uncertain  style-,  so 
that  at  a  distance  from  the  flight  alone  it  would  be 
difficult  to  distinguish  them,  though  in  fact  the 
magpie's  longer  tail  and  white  and  black  colours 
always  mark  him.  One  morning  in  July,  standing 
for  a  moment  in  the  shade  beside  a  birch  copse 
which  borders  the  same  road,  a  jay  flew  up  into 
the  tree  immediately  overhead,  so  near  that  the 
peculiar  shape  of  the  head  and  bill  and  all  the 
plumage  was  visible.  He  looked  down  twice,  and 
then  flew.  Another  morning  there  was  a  jay  on 
the  ground,  searching  about,  not  five  yards  from 
the  road,  nor  twenty  from  a  row  of  houses.  It  was 
at  the  corner  of  a  copse  which  adjoins  them.  If 
not  so  constantly  shot  at  the  jay  would  be  anything 
but  wild. 

Notwithstanding  all  these  magpies  and  jays,  the 


MAGPIE    FIELDS 


partridges  are  numerous  this  year  in  the  fields  bor- 
dering the  highway,  and  which  are  not  watched  by 
keepers.  Thinking  of  the  partridges  makes  me 
notice  the  ant-hills.  There  were  comparatively 
few  this  season,  but  on  the  4th  of  August,  which 
was  a  sunny  day,  I  saw  the  inhabitants  of  a  hill 
beside  the  road  bringing  out  the  eggs  into  the  sun- 
shine. They  could  not  do  it  fast  enough ;  some 
ran  out  with  eggs,  and  placed  them  on  the  top  of 
the  little  mound,  and  others  seized  eggs  that  had 
been  exposed  sufficiently  and  hurried  with  them 
into  the  interior. 

Woody  nightshade  grows  in  quantities  along  this 
road,  and,  apparently,  all  about  the  outskirts  of  the 
town.  There  is  not  a  hedge  without  it,  and  it 
creeps  over  the  mounds  of  earth  at  the  sides  of  the 
highways.  Some  fumitory  appeared  this  summer 
in  a  field  of  barley  ;  till  then  I  had  not  observed 
any  for  some  time  in  that  district.  This  plant, 
once  so  common,  but  now  nearly  eradicated  by  cul- 
ture, has  a  soft  pleasant  green.  A  cornflower,  too, 
flowered  in  another  field,  quite  a  treasure  to  find 
where  these  beautiful  blue  flowers  are  so  scarce. 
The  last  day  of  August  there  was  a  fierce  combat 
on  the  footpath  between  a  wasp  and  a  brown  moth. 
They  rolled  over  and  struggled,  now  one,  now  the 
other  uppermost,  and  the  wasp  appeared  to  sting  the 
moth  repeatedly.  The  moth,  however,  got  away. 
—  203  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

There  are  so  many  jackdaws  about  the  suburbs 
that,  when  a  flock  of  rooks  passes  over,  the  caw- 
cawing  is  quite  equalled  by  the  jack-jucking.  The 
daws  are  easily  known  by  their  lesser  size  and  by 
their  flight,  for  they  use  their  wings  three  times  to 
the  rook's  once.  Numbers  of  daws  build  in  the 
knotholes  and  hollows  of  the  horse-chestnut  trees 
in  Bushey  Park,  and  in  the  elms  of  the  grounds 
of  Hampton  Court. 

To  the  left  of  the  Diana  Fountain  there  are  a 
number  of  hawthorn  trees,  which  stand  apart,  and 
are  aged  like  those  often  found  on  village  greens 
and  commons.  Upon  some  of  these  hawthorns 
mistletoe  grows,  not  in  such  quantities  as  on  the 
apples  in  Gloucester  and  Hereford,  but  in  small 
pieces. 

As  late  in  the  spring  as  May-day  I  have  seen 
some  berries,  then  very  large,  on  the  mistletoe  here. 
Earlier  in  the  year,  when  the  adjoining  fountain 
was  frozen  and  crowded  with  skaters,  there  were 
a  number  of  missel-thrushes  in  these  hawthorns, 
but  they  appeared  to  be  eating  the  haws.  At  all 
events,  they  left  some  of  the  mistletoe  berries, 
which  were  on  the  plant  months  later. 

Just  above  Molesey  Lock,  in  the  meadows  be- 
side the  towing-path,  the  blue  meadow  geranium, 
or  crane's-bill,  flowers  in  large  bunches  in  the 
summer.  It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful  flowers 
—  204  — 


MAGPIE    FIELDS 

of  the  field,  and  after  having  lost  sight  of  it  for 
some  time,  to  see  it  again  seemed  to  bring  the  old 
familiar  far-away  fields  close  to  London.  Between 
Hampton  Court  and  Kingston  the  towing-path  of 
the  Thames  is  bordered  by  a  broad  greensward, 
sufficiently  wide  to  be  worth  mowing.  One  July 
I  found  a  man  at  work  here  in  advance  of  the 
mowers,  pulling  up  yarrow  plants  with  might  and 
main. 

The  herb  grew  in  such  quantities  that  it  was 
necessary  to  remove  it  first,  or  the  hay  would  be 
too  coarse.  On  conversing  with  him,  he  said  that 
a  person  came  sometimes  and  took  away  a  trap 
load  of  yarrow  ;  the  flowers  were  to  be  boiled  and 
mixed  with  cayenne  pepper,  as  a  remedy  for  cold 
in  the  chest.  In  spring  the  dandelions  here  are 
pulled  in  sackfuls,  to  be  eaten  as  salad.  These 
things  have  fallen  so  much  into  disuse  in  the 
country  that  country  people  are  surprised  to  find 
the  herbalists  flourishing  round  the  great  city  of 
progress. 

The  continued  dry  weather  in  the  early  summer 
of  the  present  year,  which  was  so  favourable  to 
partridges  and  game,  was  equally  favourable  to  the 
increase  of  several  other  kinds  of  birds,  and  among 
these  the  jays.  Their  screeching  is  often  heard 
in  this  district,  quite  as  often  as  it  is  in  country 
woodlands.  One  day  in  the  spring  I  saw  six  all 


«~  J«K     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

screeching  and  yelling  together  up  and  down  a 
hedge  near  the  road.  Now  in  October  they  are 
plentiful.  One  flew  across  overhead  with  an  acorn 
in  its  beak,  and  perched  in  an  elm  beside  the  high- 
way. He  pecked  at  the  acorn  on  the  bough,  then 
glanced  down,  saw  me,  and  fled,  dropping  the 
acorn,  which  fell  tap-tap  from  branch  to  branch  till 
it  reached  the  mound. 

Another  jay  actually  flew  up  into  a  fir  in  the 
green,  or  lawn,  before  a  farm-house  window,  cross- 
ing the  road  to  do  so.  Four  together  were  screech- 
ing in  an  elm  close  to  the  road,  and  since  then  I 
have  seen  others  with  acorns,  while  walking  there. 
Indeed,  this  autumn  it  is  not  possible  to  go  far 
without  hearing  their  discordant  and  unmistakable 
cry.  They  were  never  scarce  here,  but  are  un- 
usually numerous  this  season,  and  in  the  scattered 
trees  of  hedgerows  their  ways  can  be  better  ob- 
served than  in  the  close  covert  of  copses  and  plan- 
tations, where  you  hear  them,  but  cannot  see  for 
the  thick  fir  boughs. 

It  is  curious  to  note  the  number  of  creatures 
to  whom  the  oak  furnishes  food.  The  jays,  for 
instance,  are  now  visiting  them  for  acorns ;  in 
the  summer  they  fluttered  round  the  then  green 
branches  for  the  chafers,  and  in  the  evenings  the 
fern  owls  or  goatsuckers  wheeled  about  the  verge 
for  these  and  for  moths.  Rooks  come  to  the  oaks 
—  206  — 


MAGPIE    FIELDS 

in  crowds  for  the  acorns;  wood-pigeons  are  even 
more  fond  of  them,  and  from  their  crops  quite  a 
handful  may  sometimes  be  taken  when  shot  in  the 
trees. 

They  will  carry  off  at  once  as  many  acorns  as 
old-fashioned  economical  farmers  used  to  walk 
about  with  in  their  pockets,  "  chucking  "  them  one- 
two,  or  three  at  a  time  to  the  pigs  in  the  stye  as  a 
bonne  bouche  and  an  encouragement  to  fatten  well. 
Never  was  there  such  a  bird  to  eat  as  the  wood- 
pigeon.  Pheasants  roam  out  from  the  preserves 
after  the  same  fruit,  and  no  arts  can  retain  them 
at  acorn  time.  Swine  are  let  run  out  about  the 
hegderows  to  help  themselves.  Mice  pick  up  the 
acorns  that  fall,  and  hide  them  for  winter  use,  and 
squirrels  select  the  best. 

If  there  is  a  decaying  bough,  or,  more  particu- 
larly, one  that  has  been  sawn  off,  it  slowly  decays 
into  a  hollow,  and  will  remain  in  that  state  for  years, 
the  resort  of  endless  woodlice,  snapped  up  by  insect- 
eating  birds.  Down  from  the  branches  in  spring 
there  descend  long,  slender  threads,  like  gossamer, 
with  a  caterpillar  at  the  end  of  each  —  the  insect- 
eating  birds  decimate  these.  So  that  in  various 
ways  the  oaks  give  more  food  to  the  birds  than 
any  other  tree.  Where  there  are  oaks  there  are 
sure  to  be  plenty  of  birds.  Beeches  come  next. 
Is  it  possible  that  the  severe  frosts  we  sometimes 
—  207  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

have  split  oak  trees  ?  Some  may  be  found  split  up 
the  trunk,  and  yet  not  apparently  otherwise  injured, 
as  they  probably  would  be  if  it  had  been  done 
by  lightning.  Trees  are  said  to  burst  in  America 
under  frost,  so  that  it  is  not  impossible  in  this 
country. 

There  is  a  young  oak  beside  the  highway  which 
in  autumn  was  wreathed  as  artistically  as  could 
have  been  done  by  hand.  A  black  bryony  plant 
grew  up  round  it,  rising  in  a  spiral.  The  heart- 
shaped  leaves  have  dropped  from  the  bine,  leaving 
thick  bunches  of  red  and  green  berries  clustering 
about  the  greyish  stem  of  the  oak. 

Every  one  must  have  noticed  that  some  trees 
have  a  much  finer  autumn  tint  than  others.  This, 
it  will  often  be  found,  is  an  annual  occurrence,  and 
the  same  elm,  or  beech,  or  oak  that  has  delighted 
the  eye  with  its  hues  this  autumn,  will  do  the 
same  next  year,  and  excel  its  neighbours  in  colour. 
Oaks  and  beeches,  perhaps,  are  the  best  examples 
of  this,  as  they  are  also  the  trees  that  present  the 
most  beautiful  appearance  in  autumn. 

There  are  oaks  on  villa  lawns  near  London  whose 
glory  of  russet  foliage  in  October  or  November  is 
not  to  be  surpassed  in  the  parks  of  the  country. 
There  are  two  or  three  such  oaks  in  Long  Ditton. 
All  oaks  do  not  become  russet,  or  buff;  some  never 
take  those  tints.  An  oak,  for  instance,  not  far 

—  208  — 


MAGPIE    FIELDS     ^E^^^E^ 


from  those  just  mentioned  never  quite  loses  its 
green  ;  it  cannot  be  said,  indeed,  to  remain  green, 
but  there  is  a  trace  of  it  somewhere;  the  leaves 
must,  I  suppose,  be  partly  buff  and  partly  green  ; 
and  the  mixture  of  these  colours  in  bright  sun- 
shine produces  a  tint  for  which  I  know  no  accurate 
term. 

In  the  tops  of  the  poplars,  where  most  exposed, 
the  leaves  stay  till  the  last,  those  growing  on  the 
trunk  below  disappearing  long  before  those  on  the 
spire,  which  bends  to  every  blast.  The  keys  of 
the  hornbeam  come  twirling  down  :  the  hornbeam 
and  the  birch  are  characteristic  trees  of  the  London 
landscape  —  the  latter  reaches  a  great  height  and 
never  loses  its  beauty,  for  when  devoid  of  leaves 
the  feathery  spray-like  branches  only  come  into 
view  the  more. 

The  abundant  bird  life  is  again  demonstrated  as 
the  evening  approaches.  Along  the  hedgerows,  at 
the  corners  of  the  copses,  wherever  there  is  the 
least  cover,  so  soon  as  the  sun  sinks  the  black- 
birds announce  their  presence  by  their  calls.  Their 
11  ching-chinging  "  sounds  everywhere;  they  come 
out  on  the  projecting  branches  and  cry,  then  fly 
fifty  yards  further  down  the  hedge,  and  cry  again. 
During  the  day  they  may  not  have  been  noticed, 
scattered  as  they  were  under  the  bushes,  but  the 
dusky  shadows  darkening  the  fields  send  them 
14  —  209  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

to  roost,  and  before  finally  retiring  they  "  ching- 
ching "  to  each  other. 

Then,  almost  immediately  after  the  sun  has  gone 
down,  looking  to  the  south-west  the  sky  seen  above 
the  trees  (which  hide  the  yellow  sunset)  becomes  a 
delicate  violet.  Soon  a  speck  of  light  gleams  faintly 
through  it  —  the  merest  speck.  The  first  appear- 
ance of  a  star  is  very  beautiful ;  the  actual  moment 
of  first  contact  as  it  were  of  the  ray  with  the  eye 
is  always  a  surprise,  however  often  you  may  have 
enjoyed  it,  and  notwithstanding  that  you  are  aware 
it  will  happen.  Where  there  was  only  the  indefi- 
nite violet  before,  the  most  intense  gaze  into  which 
could  discover  nothing,  suddenly,  as  if  at  that  mo- 
ment born,  the  point  of  light  arrives. 

So  glorious  is  the  night  that  not  all  London, 
with  its  glare  and  smoke,  can  smother  the  sky ;  in 
the  midst  of  the  gas,  and  the  roar  and  the  driv- 
ing crowd,  look  up  from  the  pavement,  and  there, 
straight  above,  are  the  calm  stars.  I  never  forget 
them,  not  even  in  the  restless  Strand  ;  they  face 
one  coming  down  the  hill  of  the  Haymarket;  in 
Trafalgar  Square,  looking  towards  the  high  dark 
structure  of  the  House  at  Westminster,  the  clear 
bright  steel  silver  of  the  planet  Jupiter  shines  un- 
wearied, without  sparkle  or  flicker. 

Apart  from  the  grand  atmospheric  changes  caused 
by  a  storm  wave  from  the  Atlantic,  or  an  anti- 

—  210  — 


MAGPIE    FIELDS 

cyclone,  London  produces  its  own  sky.  Put  a 
shepherd  on  St.  Paul's,  allow  him  three  months 
to  get  accustomed  to  the  local  appearances  and  the 
deceptive  smoke  clouds,  and  he  would  then  tell 
what  the  weather  of  the  day  was  going  to  be  far 
more  efficiently  than  the  very  best  instrument  ever 
yet  invented.  He  would  not  always  be  right ;  but 
he  would  predict  the  local  London  weather  with 
far  more  accuracy  than  any  one  reading  the  returns 
from  the  barometers  at  Valentia,  Stornaway,  Brest, 
or  Christiansand. 

The  reason  is  this  —  the  barometer  foretells  the 
cloud  in  the  sky,  but  cannot  tell  where  it  will  burst. 
The  practised  eye  can  judge  with  very  consider- 
able accuracy  where  the  discharge  will  take  place. 
Some  idea  of  what  the  local  weather  of  London 
will  be  for  the  next  few  hours  may  often  be  ob- 
tained by  observation  on  either  of  the  bridges  — 
Westminster,  Waterloo,  or  London  Bridge :  there  is 
on  the  bridges  something  like  a  horizon,  the  best  to 
be  got  in  the  City  itself,  and  the  changes  announce 
themselves  very  clearly  there.  The  difference  in 
the  definition  is  really  wonderful. 

From  Waterloo  Bridge  the  golden  cross  on  St. 
Paul's  and  the  dome  at  one  time  stand  out  as  if 
engraved  upon  the  sky,  clear  and  with  a  white  as- 
pect. At  the  same  time,  the  brick  of  the  old 
buildings  at  the  back  of  the  Strand  is  red  and 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

bright.  The  structures  of  the  bridges  appear  light, 
and  do  not  press  upon  their  arches.  The  yellow 
straw  stacked  on  the  barges  is  bright,  the  copper- 
tinted  sails  bright,  the  white  wall  of  the  Embank- 
ment clear,  and  the  lions'  head  distinct.  Every 
trace  of  colour,  in  short,  is  visible. 

At  another  time  the  dome  is  murky,  the  cross 
tarnished,  the  outline  dim,  the  red  brick  dull,  the 
whiteness  gone.  In  summer  there  is  occasionally  a 
bluish  haze  about  the  distant  buildings.  These  are 
the  same  changes  presented  by  the  Downs  in  the 
country,  and  betoken  the  state  of  the  atmosphere 
as  clearly.  The  London  atmosphere  is,  I  should 
fancy,  quite  as  well  adapted  to  the  artist's  uses  as 
the  changeless  glare  of  the  Continent.  The  smoke 
itself  is  not  without  its  interest. 

Sometimes  upon  Westminster  Bridge  at  night  the 
scene  is  very  striking.  Vast  rugged  columns  of 
vapour  rise  up  behind  and  over  the  towers  of  the 
House,  hanging  with  threatening  aspect ;  westward 
the  sky  is  nearly  clear,  with  some  relic  of  the 
sunset  glow  :  the  river  itself,  black  or  illuminated 
with  the  electric  light,  imparting  a  silvery  blue  tint, 
crossed  again  with  the  red  lamps  of  the  steamers. 
The  aurora  of  dark  vapour,  streamers  extending 
from  the  thicker  masses,  slowly  moves  and  yet  does 
not  go  away;  it  is  just  such  a  sky  as  a  painter  might 
give  to  some  tremendous  historical  event,  a  sky  big 


MAGPIE    FIELDS      ^^ 

with  presage,  gloom,  tragedy.  How  bright  and 
clear,  again,  are  the  mornings  in  summer!  I  once 
watched  the  sun  rise  on  London  Bridge,  and  never 
forgot  it. 

In  frosty  weather,  again,  when  the  houses  take 
hard,  stern  tints,  when  the  sky  is  clear  over  great 
part  of  its  extent,  but  with  heavy  thunderous  looking 
clouds  in  places — clouds  full  of  snow  —  the  sun 
becomes  of  a  red  or  orange  hue,  and  reminds  one 
of  the  lines  of  Longfellow  when  Othere  reached 
the  North  Cape  — 

"  Round  in  a  fiery  ring 
Went  the  great  sun,  oh  King  ! 
With  red  and  lurid  light." 

The  redness  of  the  winter  sun  in  London  is,  indeed, 
characteristic. 

A  sunset  in  winter  or  early  spring  floods  the 
streets  with  fiery  glow.  It  comes,  for  instance, 
down  Piccadilly ;  it  is  reflected  from  the  smooth 
varnished  roofs  of  the  endless  carriages  that  roll  to 
and  fro  like  the  flicker  of  a  mighty  fire ;  it  streaks 
the  side  of  the  street  with  rosiness.  The  faces  of 
those  who  are  passing  are  lit  up  by  it,  all  uncon- 
scious as  they  are.  The  sky  above  London,  indeed, 
is  as  full  of  interest  as  above  the  hills.  Lunar 
rainbows  occasionally  occur ;  two  to  my  knowledge 
were  seen  in  the  direction  and  apparently  over  the 
metropolis  recently. 

-213  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

When  a  few  minutes  on  the  rail  has  carried  you 
outside  the  hub  as  it  were  of  London,  among  the 
quiet  tree-skirted  villas,  the  night  reigns  as  com- 
pletely as  in  the  solitudes  of  the  country.  Perhaps 
even  more  so,  for  the  solitude  is  somehow  more 
apparent.  The  last  theatre-goer  has  disappeared  in- 
side his  hall  door,  the  last  dull  roll  of  the  brougham 
with  its  happy  laughing  load,  has  died  away  — 
there  is  not  so  much  as  a  single  footfall.  The 
cropped  holly  hedges,  the  leafless  birches,  the 
limes  and  acacias  are  still  and  distinct  in  the  moon- 
light. A  few  steps  further  out  on  the  highway  the 
copse  or  plantation  sleeps  in  utter  silence. 

But  the  tall  elms  are  the  most  striking  ;  the 
length  of  the  branches  and  their  height  above 
brings  them  across  the  light,  so  that  they  stand  out 
even  more  shapely  than  when  in  leaf.  The  blue 
sky  (not,  of  course,  the  blue  of  day),  the  white 
moonlight,  the  bright  stars  —  larger  at  midnight 
and  brilliant,  in  despite  of  the  moon,  which  cannot 
overpower  them  in  winter  as  she  does  in  summer 
evenings  —  all  are  as  beautiful  as  on  the  distant 
hills  of  old.  By  night,  at  least,  even  here,  in  the 
still  silence,  Heaven  has  her  own  way. 

When  the  oak  leaves  first  begin  to  turn   buff", 

and  the  first  acorns  drop,  the  redwings  arrive,  and 

their  "  kuk-kuk "  sounds   in   the   hedges  and   the 

shrubberies  in  the  gardens  of  suburban  villas.     They 

—  214— 


MAGPIE    FIELDS 

seem  to  come  very  early  to  the  neighbourhood  of 
London,  and  before  the  time  of  their  appearance 
in  other  districts.  The  note  is  heard  before  they 
are  seen  ;  the  foliage  of  the  shrubberies,  still  thick, 
though  changing  colour,  concealing  them.  Pres- 
ently, when  the  trees  are  bare,  with  the  exception 
of  a  few  oaks,  they  have  disappeared,  passing  on 
towards  the  west.  The  fieldfares,  too,  as  I  have 
previously  observed,  do  not  stay.  But  missel- 
thrushes  seem  more  numerous  near  town  than  in 
the  country. 

Every  mild  day  in  November  the  thrushes  sing ; 
there  are  meadows  where  one  may  be  certain  to 
hear  the  song  thrush.  In  the  dip  or  valley  at 
Long  Ditton  there  are  several  meadows  Well  tim- 
bered with  elm,  which  are  the  favourite  resorts  of 
thrushes,  and  their  song  may  be  heard  just  there  in 
the  depth  of  winter,  when  it  would  be  possible  to  go 
a  long  distance  on  the  higher  ground  without  hearing 
one.  If  you  hear  the  note  of  the  song  thrush 
during  frost  it  is  sure  to  rain  within  a  few  hours  ;  it 
is  the  first  sign  of  the  weather  breaking  up. 

Another  autumn  sign  is  the  packing  (in  a  sense) 
of  the  moorhens.  During  the  summer  the  numer- 
ous brooks  and  ponds  about  town  are  apparently 
partially  deserted  by  these  birds ;  at  least  they  are 
not  to  be  seen  by  casual  wayfarers.  But  directly 
the  winter  gets  colder  they  gather  together  in  the 
—  215  — 


g=^<K     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

old  familiar  places,  and  five  or  six,  or  even  more, 
come  out  at  once  to  feed  in  the  meadows  or  on  the 
lawns  by  the  water. 

Green  plovers,  or  peewits,  come  in  small  flocks 
to  the  fields  recently  ploughed  ;  sometimes  scarcely 
a  gunshot  from  the  walls  of  the  villas.  The  tiny 
golden-crested  wrens  are  comparatively  numerous 
near  town  —  the  heaths  with  their  bramble  thickets 
doubtless  suit  them ;  so  soon  as  the  leaves  fall 
they  may  often  be  seen. 


HERBS 


AjREAT  green  book,  whose  broad  pages 
are  illuminated  with  flowers,  lies   open 
at  the  feet  of  Londoners.     This  vol- 
ume, without  further  preface,  lies  ever 
open  at  Kew  Gardens,  and  is  most  easily  accessible 
from  every  part  of  the  metropolis.     A  short  walk 
from  Kew  station  brings  the  visitor  to  Cumberland 
Gate.     Resting  for  a  moment  upon  the  first  seat 
that  presents  itself,  it  is  hard  to  realise  that  London 
has  but  just  been  quitted. 

Green  foliage  around,  green  grass  beneath,  a 
pleasant  sensation  —  not  silence,  but  absence  of 
jarring  sound  —  blue  sky  overhead,  streaks  and 
patches  of  sunshine  where  the  branches  admit  the 
rays,  wide,  cool  shadows,  and  clear,  sweet  atmos- 
phere. High  in  a  lime  tree,  hidden  from  view  by 
the  leaves,  a  chiff-chaff  sings  continually,  and  from 
the  distance  comes  the  softer  note  of  a  thrush. 
On  the  close-mown  grass  a  hedge-sparrow  is  search- 
ing about  within  a  few  yards,  and  idle  insects  float 
to  and  fro,  visible  against  the  background  of  a 
dark  yew  tree  —  they  could  not  be  seen  in  the 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     2EEI35: 

glare  of  the  sunshine.     The  peace  of  green  things 
reigns. 

It  is  not  necessary  to  go  further  in ;  this  spot  at 
the  very  entrance  is  equally  calm  and  still,  for 
there  is  no  margin  of  partial  disturbance  —  repose 
begins  at  the  edge.  Perhaps  it  is  best  to  be  at  once 
content,  and  to  move  no  further;  to  remain,  like 
the  lime  tree,  in  one  spot,  with  the  sunshine  and 
the  sky,  to  close  the  eyes  and  listen  to  the  thrush. 
Something,  however,  urges  exploration. 

The  majority  of  visitors  naturally  follow  the 
path,  and  go  round  into  the  general  expanse  ;  but 
I  will  turn  from  here  sharply  to  the  right,  and 
crossing  the  sward  there  is,  after  a  few  steps  only, 
another  enclosing  wall.  Within  this  enclosure, 
called  the  Herbaceous  Ground,  heedlessly  passed 
and  perhaps  never  heard  of  by  the  thousands  who 
go  to  see  the  Palm  Houses,  lies  to  me  the  real  and 
truest  interest  of  Kew.  For  here  is  a  living  dic- 
tionary of  English  wild  flowers. 

The  meadow  and  the  cornfield,  the  river,  the 
mountain  and  the  woodland,  the  seashore,  the  very 
waste  place  by  the  roadside,  each  has  sent  its  pe- 
culiar representatives,  and  glancing  for  the  moment, 
at  large,  over  the  beds,  noting  their  number  and 
extent,  remembering  that  the  specimens  are  not  in 
the  mass  but  individual,  the  first  conclusion  is  that 
our  own  country  is  the  true  Flowery  Land. 
'  —218  — 


HERBS 


But  the  immediate  value  of  this  wonderful  gar- 
den is  in  the  clue  it  gives  to  the  most  ignorant, 
enabling  any  one,  no  matter  how  unlearned,  to 
identify  the  flower  that  delighted  him  or  her,  it 
may  be,  years  ago,  in  far-away  field  or  copse. 
Walking  up  and  down  the  green  paths  between 
the  beds,  you  are  sure  to  come  upon  it  presently, 
with  its  scientific  name  duly  attached  and  its 
natural  order  labelled  at  the  end  of  the  patch. 

Had  I  only  known  of  this  place  in  former  days, 
how  gladly  I  would  have  walked  the  hundred  miles 
hither  !  For  the  old  folk,  the  aged  men  and 
countrywomen,  have  for  the  most  part  forgotten, 
if  they  ever  knew,  the  plants  and  herbs  in  the 
hedges  they  had  frequented  from  childhood.  Some 
few,  of  course,  they  can  tell  you  ;  but  the  majority 
are  as  unknown  to  them,  except  by  sight,  as  the 
ferns  of  New  Zealand  or  the  heaths  of  the  Cape. 

Since  books  came  about,  since  the  railways  and 
science  destroyed  superstition,  the  lore  of  herbs 
has  in  great  measure  decayed  and  been  lost.  The 
names  of  many  of  the  commonest  herbs  are  quite 
forgotten  —  they  are  weeds,  and  nothing  more. 
But  here  these  things  are  preserved  ;  in  London, 
the  centre  of  civilisation  and  science,  is  a  garden 
which  restores  the  ancient  knowledge  of  the  monks 
and  the  witches  of  the  villages. 

Thus,  on  entering  to-day,  the  first  plant  which 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     X= 


I  observed  is  hellebore — a  not  very  common  wild 
herb  perhaps,  but  found  in  places,  and  a  tradition- 
ary use  of  which  is  still  talked  of  in  the  country, 
a  use  which  I  must  forbear  to  mention.  What 
would  the  sturdy  mowers  whom  I  once  watched 
cutting  their  way  steadily  through  the  tall  grass  in 
June  say,  could  they  see  here  the  black  knapweed 
cultivated  as  a  garden  treasure  ?  Its  hard  woody 
head  with  purple  florets  lifted  high  above  the 
ground,  was  greatly  disliked  by  them,  as,  too,  the 
blue  scabious,  and  indeed  most  other  flowers. 
The  stalks  of  such  plants  were  so  much  harder  to 
mow  than  the  grass. 

Feathery  yarrow  sprays,  which  spring  up  by  the 
wayside  and  wherever  the  foot  of  man  passes,  as 
at  the  gateway,  are  here.  White  and  lilac-tinted 
yarrow  flowers  grow  so  thickly  along  the  roads 
round  London  as  often  to  form  a  border  between 
the  footpath  and  the  bushes  of  the  hedge.  Dan- 
delions lift  their  yellow  heads,  classified  and  culti- 
vated—  the  same  dandelions  whose  brilliant  colour 
is  admired  and  imitated  by  artists,  and  whose  pre- 
pared roots  are  still  in  use  in  country  places  to 
improve  the  flavour  of  coffee. 

Groundsel,  despised  groundsel  —  the  weed  which 
cumbers  the  garden  patch,  and  is  hastily  destroyed  — 
is  here  fully  recognised.  These  harebells  —  they 
have  flowered  a  little  earlier  than  in  their  wild 


HERBS 


state  —  how  many  scenes  they  recall  to  memory  ! 
We  found  them  on  the  tops  of  the  glorious  Downs 
when  the  wheat  was  ripe  in  the  plains  and  the 
earth  beneath  seemed  all  golden.  Some,  too,  con- 
cealed themselves  on  the  pastures  behind  those 
bunches  of  tough  grass  the  cattle  left  untouched. 
And  even  in  cold  November,  when  the  mist  lifted, 
while  the  dewdrops  clustered  thickly  on  the  grass, 
one  or  two  hung  their  heads  under  the  furze. 

Hawkweeds,  which  many  mistake  for  dande- 
lions ;  cowslips,  in  seed  now,  and  primroses,  with 
foreign  primulas  around  them  and  enclosed  by 
small  hurdles,  foxgloves,  some  with  white  and 
some  with  red  flowers,  all  these  have  their  story 
and  are  intensely  English.  Rough-leaved  comfrey 
of  the  side  of  the  river  and  brook,  one  species 
of  which  is  so  much  talked  of  as  better  forage  than 
grass,  is  here,  its  bells  opening. 

Borage,  whose  leaves  float  in  the  claret-cup 
ladled  out  to  thirsty  travellers  at  the  London  rail- 
way stations  in  the  hot  weather ;  knotted  figwort, 
common  in  ditches;  Aaron's  Rod,  found  in  old  gar- 
dens ;  lovely  veronicas ;  mints  and  calamints  whose 
leaves,  if  touched,  scent  the  fingers,  and  which 
grow  everywhere  by  cornfield  and  hedgerow. 

This  bunch  of  wild  thyme  once  again  calls  up 
a  vision  of  the  Downs  ;  it  is  not  so  thick  and 
strong,  and  it  lacks  that  cushion  of  herbage  which 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     25E 


so  often  marks  the  site  of  its  growth  on  the  noble 
slopes  of  the  hills,  and  along  the  sward-grown  fosse 
of  ancient  earthworks,  but  it  is  wild  thyme,  and 
that  is  enough.  From  this  bed  of  varieties  of 
thyme  there  rises  up  a  pleasant  odour  which  attracts 
the  bees.  Bees  and  humble-bees,  indeed,  buzz 
everywhere,  but  they  are  much  too  busily  occupied 
to  notice  you  or  me. 

Is  there  any  difference  in  the  taste  of  London 
honey  and  in  that  of  the  country  ?  From  the 
immense  quantity  of  garden  flowers  about  the 
metropolis  it  would  seem  possible  for  a  distinct 
flavour,  not  perhaps  preferable,  to  be  imparted. 
Lavender,  of  which  old  housewives  were  so  fond, 
and  which  is  still  the  best  of  preservatives,  conies 
next,  and  self-heal  is  just  coming  out  in  flower; 
the  reapers  have,  I  believe,  forgotten  its  former  use 
in  curing  the  gashes  sometimes  inflicted  by  the 
reaphook.  The  reaping-machine  has  banished 
such  memories  from  the  stubble.  Nightshades 
border  on  the  potato,  the  flowers  of  both  almost 
exactly  alike ;  poison  and  food  growing  side  by  side 
and  of  the  same  species. 

There  are  tales  still  told  in  the  villages  of  this 
deadly  and  enchanted  mandragora ;  the  lads  some- 
times go  to  the  churchyards  to  search  for  it. 
Plantains  and  docks,  wild  spurge,  hops  climbing 
up  a  dead  fir  tree,  a  well-chosen  pole  for  them  — 


H  ERBS 

nothing  is  omitted.  Even  the  silver  weed,  the 
dusty-looking  foliage  which  is  thrust  aside  as  you 
walk  on  the  footpath  by  the  road,  is  here  labelled 
with  truth  as  "  cosmopolitan  "  of  habit. 

Bird's-foot  lotus,  another  Downside  plant,  lights 
up  the  stones  put  to  represent  rockwork  with  its 
yellow.  Saxifrage,  and  stonecrop,  and  house-leek 
are  here  in  variety.  Buttercups  occupy  a  whole 
patch  —  a  little  garden  to  themselves.  What 
would  the  haymakers  say  to  such  a  sight  ?  Little, 
too,  does  the  mower  reck  of  the  number,  variety, 
and  beauty  of  the  grasses  in  a  single  armful  of 
swathe,  such  as  he  gathers  up  to  cover  his  jar 
of  ale  with  and  keep  it  cool  by  the  hedge.  The 
bennets,  the  flower  of  the  grass,  on  their  tall  stalks, 
go  down  in  numbers  as  countless  as  the  sand  of 
the  seashore  before  his  scythe. 

But  here  the  bennets  are  watched  and  tended, 
the  weeds  removed  from  around  them,  and  all  the 
grasses  of  the  field  cultivated  as  affectionately  as 
the  finest  rose.  There  is  something  cool  and 
pleasant  in  this  green  after  the  colours  of  the  herbs 
in  flower,  though  each  grass  is  but  a  bunch,  yet  it 
has  with  it  something  of  the  sweetness  of  the 
meadows  by  the  brooks.  Juncus,  the  rush,  is  here, 
a  sign  often  welcome  to  cattle,  for  they  know  that 
water  must  be  near;  the  bunch  is  cut  down,  and 
the  white  pith  shows,  but  it  will  speedily  be  up 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

again  ;  horse-tails,  too,  so  thick  in  marshy  places 
—  one  small  species  is  abundant  in  the  ploughed 
fields  of  Surrey,  and  must  be  a  great  trouble  to  the 
farmers,  for  the  land  is  sometimes  quite  hidden 
by  it. 

In  the  adjoining  water  tank  are  the  principal 
flowers  and  plants  which  flourish  in  brook,  river, 
and  pond.  This  yellow  iris  flowers  in  many 
streams  about  London,  and  the  water  parsnip's 
pale  green  foliage  waves  at  the  very  bottom,  for  it 
will  grow  with  the  current  right  over  it  as  well  as 
at  the  side.  Water  plantain  grows  in  every  pond 
near  the  metropolis ;  there  is  some  j.ust  outside 
these  gardens,  in  a  wet  ha-ha. 

The  huge  water  docks  in  the  centre  here  flourish 
at  the  verge  of  the  adjacent  Thames ;  the  marsh 
marigold,  now  in  seed,  blooms  in  April  in  the  damp 
furrows  of  meadows  close  up  to  town.  But  in 
this  flower-pot,  sunk  so  as  to  be  in  the  water,  and 
yet  so  that  the  rim  may  prevent  it  from  spreading 
and  coating  the  entire  tank  with  green,  is  the 
strangest  of  all,  actually  duckweed.  The  still 
ponds,  always  found  close  to  cattle  yards,  are  in 
summer  green  from  end  to  end  with  this  weed.  I 
recommend  all  country  folk  who  come  up  to  town 
in  summer  time  to  run  down  here  just  to  see  duck- 
weed cultivated  once  in  their  lives. 

In  front  of  an  ivy-grown  museum   there    is    a 

—  Z24  — 


HERBS 


kind  of  bowling-green,  sunk  somewhat  below  the 
general  surface,  where  in  similar  beds  may  be 
found  the  most  of  those  curious  old  herbs  which 
for  seasoning  or  salad,  or  some  use  or  superstition, 
were  famous  in  ancient  English  households.  Not 
one  of  them  but  has  its  associations.  "  There  's 
rue  for  you,  "  to  begin  with  ;  we  all  know  who 
that  herb  is  for  ever  connected  with. 

There  is  marjoram  and  sage,  clary,  spearmint, 
peppermint,  salsify,  elecampane,  tansy,  asafoetida, 
coriander,  angelica,  caper  spurge,  lamb's  lettuce,  and 
sorrel.  Mugwort,  southernwood,  and  wormwood 
are  still  to  be  found  in  old  gardens  ;  they  stand 
here  side  by  side.  Monkshood,  horehound,  hen- 
bane, vervain  (good  against  the  spells  of  witches), 
feverfew,  dog's  mercury,  bistort,  woad,  and  so  on, 
all  seem  like  relics  of  the  days  of  black-letter  books. 
All  the  while  greenfinches  are  singing  happily  in 
the  trees  without  the  wall. 

This  is  but  the  briefest  resume  ;  for  many  long 
summer  afternoons  would  be  needed  even  to  glance 
at  all  the  wild  flowers  that  bloom  in  June.  Then 
you  must  come  once  at  least  a  month,  from  March 
to  September,  as  the  flowers  succeed  each  other, 
to  read  the  place  aright.  It  is  an  index  to  every 
meadow  and  cornfield,  wood,  heath,  and  river  in 
the  country,  and  by  means  of  the  plants  of  the 
same  species  to  the  flowers  of  the  world.  There- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

fore  the  Herbaceous  Ground  seems  to  me  a  place 
that  should  on  no  account  be  passed  by.  And 
the  next  place  is  the  Wilderness  —  that  is,  the 
Forest. 

On  the  way  thither  an  old-fashioned  yew  hedge 
may  be  seen  round  about  a  vast  glasshouse.  Out- 
side, on  the  sward,  there  are  fewer  wild  flowers 
growing  wild  than  might  perhaps  be  expected, 
owing  in  some  degree,  no  doubt,  to  the  frequent 
mowing,  except  under  the  trees,  where  again  the 
constant  shadow  does  not  suit  all.  By  the  ponds, 
in  the  midst  of  trees,  and  near  the  river,  there  is  a 
little  grass,  however,  left  to  itself,  in  which  in  June 
there  were  some  bird's-foot  lotus,  veronica,  hawk- 
weeds,  ox-eye  daisy,  knapweed,  and  buttercups. 
Standing  by  these  ponds,  I  heard  a  cuckoo  call, 
and  saw  a  rook  sail  over  them ;  there  was  no  other 
sound  but  that  of  the  birds  and  the  merry  laugh  of 
children  rolling  down  the  slopes. 

The  midsummer  hum  was  audible  above  ;  the 
honeydew  glistened  on  the  leaves  of  the  limes. 
There  is  a  sense  of  repose  in  the  mere  aspect  of 
large  trees  in  groups  and  masses  of  quiet  foliage. 
Their  breadth  of  form  steadies  the  roving  eye ;  the 
rounded  slopes,  the  wide  sweeping  outline  of  these 
hills  of  green  boughs,  induce  an  inclination,  like 
them,  to  rest.  To  recline  upon  the  grass  and  with 
half-closed  eyes  gaze  upon  them  is  enough. 

—  Z26  — 


HERBS 


The  delicious  silence  is  not  the  silence  of  night, 
of  lifelessness  ;  it  is  the  lack  of  jarring,  mechanical 
noise ;  it  is  not  silence,  but  the  sound  of  leaf  and 
grass  gently  stroked  by  the  soft  and  tender  touch  of 
the  summer  air.  It  is  the  sound  of  happy  finches, 
of  the  slow  buzz  of  humble-bees,  of  the  occasional 
splash  of  a  fish,  or  the  call  of  a  moorhen.  Invis- 
ible in  the  brilliant  beams  above,  vast  legions  of 
insects  crowd  the  sky,  but  the  product  of  their 
restless  motion  is  a  slumberous  hum.  , 

These  sounds  are  the  real  silence;  just  as  a  tiny 
ripple  of  the  water  and  the  swinging  of  the  shadows 
as  the  boughs  stoop  are  the  real  stillness.  If  they 
were  absent,  if  it  was  the  soundlessness  and  still- 
ness of  stone,  the  mind  would  crave  for  something. 
But  these  fill  and  content  it.  Thus  reclining,  the 
storm  and  stress  of  life  dissolve  —  there  is  no 
thought,  no  care,  no  desire.  Somewhat  of  the 
Nirvana  of  the  earth  beneath  —  the  earth  which 
for  ever  produces  and  receives  back  again  and  yet 
is  for  ever  at  rest  —  enters  into  and  soothes  the 
heart. 

The  time  slips  by,  a  rook  emerges  from  yonder 
mass  of  foliage,  and  idly  floats  across,  and  is  hidden 
in  another  tree.  A  whitethroat  rises  from  a  bush 
and  nervously  discourses,  gesticulating  with  wings 
and  tail,  for  a  few  moments.  But  this  is  not  possible 
for  long;  the  immense  magnetism  of  London,  as  I 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON    2E~ 


have  said  before,  is  too  near.  There  comes  the 
quick  short  beat  of  a  steam  launch  shooting  down 
the  river  hard  by,  and  the  dream  is  over.  I  rise 
and  go  on  again. 

Already  one  of  the  willows  planted  about  the 
pond  is  showing  the  yellow  leaf,  before  midsummer. 
It  reminds  me  of  the  inevitable  autumn.  In 
October  these  ponds,  now  apparently  deserted,  will 
be  full  of  moorhens.  I  have  seen  and  heard  but 
one  to-day,  but  as  the  autumn  comes  on  they  will 
be  here  again,  feeding  about  the  island,  or  search- 
ing on  the  sward  by  the  shore.  Then,  too,  among 
the  beeches  that  lead  from  hence  towards  the  fanci- 
ful pagoda  the  squirrels  will  be  busy.  There  are 
numbers  of  them,  and  their  motions  may  be  watched 
with  ease.  I  turn  down  by  the  river;  in  the  ditch 
at  the  foot  of  the  ha-ha  wall  is  plenty  of  duckweed, 
the  Lemna  of  the  tank. 

A  little  distance  away,  and  almost  on  the  shore, 
as  it  seems,  of  the  Thames,  is  a  really  noble  horse- 
chestnut,  whose  boughs,  untouched  by  cattle,  come 
sweeping  down  to  the  ground,  and  then,  continuing, 
seem  to  lie  on  and  extend  themselves  along  it, 
yards  beyond  their  contact.  Underneath,  it  re- 
minds one  of  sketches  of  encampments  in  Hindo- 
stan  beneath  banyan  trees,  where  white  tent  cloths 
are  stretched  from  branch  to  branch.  Tent  cloths 
might  be  stretched  here  in  similar  manner,  and 
—  228  — 


HERBS 


would  enclose  a  goodly  space.  Or  in  the  boughs 
above,  a  savage's  tree  hut  might  be  built,  and  yet 
scarcely  be  seen. 

My  roaming  and  uncertain  steps  next  bring  me 
under  a  plane,  and  I  am  forced  to  admire  it ;  I 
do  not  like  planes,  but  this  is  so  straight  of  trunk, 
so  vast  of  size,  and  so  immense  of  height  that  I 
cannot  choose  but  look  up  into  it.  A  jackdaw, 
perched  on  an  upper  bough,  makes  off  as  I  glance 
up.  But  the  trees  constantly  afford  unexpected 
pleasure ;  you  wander  among  the  timber  of  the 
world,  now  under  the  shadow  of  the  trees  which 
the  Red  Indian  haunts,  now  by  those  which  grow 
on  Himalayan  slopes.  The  interest  lies  in  the 
fact  that  they  are  trees,  not  shrubs  or  mere  sap- 
lings, but  timber  trees  which  cast  a  broad  shadow. 

So  great  is  their  variety  and  number  that  it  is 
not  always  easy  to  find  an  oak  or  an  elm ;  there 
are  plenty,  but  they  are  often  lost  in  the  foreign 
forest.  Yet  every  English  shrub  and  bush  is  here; 
the  hawthorn,  the  dogwood,  the  wayfaring  tree, 
gorse  and  broom,  and  here  is  a  round  plot  of 
heather.  Weary  at  last,  I  rest  again  near  the 
Herbaceous  Ground,  as  the  sun  declines  and  the 
shadows  lengthen. 

As  evening  draws  on,  the  whistling  of  black- 
birds and  the  song  of  thrushes  seem  to  come  from 
everywhere  around.  The  trees  are  full  of  them. 
—  229  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

Every  few  moments  a  blackbird  passes  over,  flying 
at  some  height,  from  the  villa  gardens  and  the  or- 
chards without.  The  song  increases  ;  the  mellow 
whistling  is  without  intermission  ;  but  the  shadow 
has  nearly  reached  the  wall,  and  I  must  go. 


—  230  — 


TREES  ABOUT  TOWN 


'UST  outside  London  there  is  a  circle  of  fine, 
large  houses,  each  standing  in  its  own 
grounds,  highly  rented,  and  furnished  with 
every  convenience  money  can  supply.  If 
any  one  will  look  at  the  trees  and  shrubs  growing 
in  the  grounds  about  such  a  house,  chosen  at  ran- 
dom for  an  example,  and  make  a  list  of  them,  he 
may  then  go  round  the  entire  circumference  of 
Greater  London,  mile  after  mile,  many  days' 
journey,  and  find  the  list  ceaselessly  repeated. 

There  are  acacias,  sumachs,  cedar  deodaras, 
araucarias,  laurels,  planes,  beds  of  rhododendrons, 
and  so  on.  There  are  various  other  foreign  shrubs 
and  trees  whose  names  have  not  become  familiar, 
and  then  the  next  grounds  contain  exactly  the 
same,  somewhat  differently  arranged.  Had  they 
all  been  planted  by  Act  of  Parliament,  the  result 
could  scarcely  have  been  more  uniform. 

If,  again,  search  were  made  in  these  enclosures 
for  English  trees  and  English  shrubs,  it  would  be 
found  that  none  have  been  introduced.     The  Eng- 
lish trees,  timber  trees,  that  are  there,  grew  before 
—  231  — 


E^K     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     SE 


the  house  was  built ;  for  the  rest,  the  products 
of  English  woods  and  hedgerows  have  been  care- 
fully excluded.  The  law  is,  "  Plant  planes,  lau- 
rels, and  rhododendrons  ;  root  up  everything  natural 
to  this  country." 

To  those  who  have  any  affection  for  our  own 
woodlands  this  is  a  pitiful  spectacle,  produced,  too, 
by  the  expenditure  of  large  sums  of  money.  Will 
no  one  break  through  the  practice,  and  try  the  effect 
of  English  trees  ?  There  is  no  lack  of  them,  and 
they  far  excel  anything  yet  imported  in  beauty  and 
grandeur. 

Though  such  suburban  grounds  mimic  the  isola- 
tion and  retirement  of  ancient  country  houses  sur- 
rounded with  parks,  the  distinctive  feature  of  the 
ancient  houses  is  omitted.  There  are  no  massed 
bodies,  as  it  were,  of  our  own  trees  to  give  a  sub- 
stance to  the  view.  Are  young  oaks  ever  seen  in 
those  grounds  so  often  described  as  park-like  ? 
Some  time  since  it  was  customary  for  the  builder 
to  carefully  cut  down  every  piece  of  timber  on  the 
property  before  putting  in  the  foundations. 

Fortunately,  the  influence  of  a  better  taste  now 
preserves  such  trees  as  chance  to  be  growing  on 
the  site  at  the  moment  it  is  purchased.  These 
remain,  but  no  others  are  planted.  A  young  oak 
is  not  to  be  seen.  The  oaks  that  are  there  drop 
their  acorns  in  vain,  for  if  one  takes  root  it  is  at 
—  232  — 


TREES    ABOUT    TOWN 

once  cut  off;  it  would  spoil  the  laurels.  It  is  the 
same  with  elms ;  the  old  elms  are  decaying,  and  no 
successors  are  provided. 

As  for  ash,  it  is  doubtful  if  a  young  ash  is  any- 
where to  be  found ;  if  so,  it  is  an  accident.  The 
ash  is  even  rarer  than  the  rest.  In  their  places 
are  put  more  laurels,  cedar  deodaras,  various  ever- 
greens, rhododendrons,  planes.  How  tame  and 
insignificant  are  these  compared  with  the  oak ! 
Thrice  a  year  the  oaks  become  beautiful  in  a 
different  way. 

In  spring  the  opening  buds  give  the  tree  a  ruddy 
hue;  in  summer  the  great  head  of  green  is  not  to 
be  surpassed  ;  in  autumn,  with  the  falling  leaf  and 
acorn,  they  appear  buff  and  brown.  The  nobility 
of  the  oak  casts  the  pitiful  laurel  into  utter  insig- 
nificance. With  elms  it  is  the  same  ;  they  are  red- 
dish with  flower  and  bud  very  early  in  the  year, 
the  fresh  leaf  is  a  tender  green ;  in  autumn  they  are 
sometimes  one  mass  of  yellow. 

Ashes  change  from  almost  black  to  a  light  green, 
then  a  deeper  green,  and  again  light  green  and  yellow. 
Where  is  the  foreign  evergreen  in  the  competition  ? 
Put  side  by  side,  competition  is  out  of  the  question  : 
you  have  only  to  get  an  artist  to  paint  the  oak  in 
its  three  phases  to  see  this.  There  is  less  to  be  said 
against  the  deodara  than  the  rest,  as  it  is  a  graceful 
tree  ;  but  it  is  not  English  in  any  sense. 
_233_ 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON    SE 


The  point,  however,  is  that  the  foreigners  oust 
the  English  altogether.  Let  the  cedar  and  the 
laurel,  and  the  whole  host  of  invading  evergreens,  be 
put  aside  by  themselves,  in  a  separate  and  detached 
shrubbery,  maintained  for  the  purpose  of  exhibiting 
strange  growths.  Let  them  not  crowd  the  lovely 
English  trees  out  of  the  place.  Planes  are  much 
planted  now,  with  ill  effect ;  the  blotches  where 
the  bark  peels,  the  leaves  which  lie  on  the  sward 
like  brown  leather,  the  branches  wide  apart  and 
giving  no  shelter  to  birds  —  in  short,  the  whole 
ensemble  of  the  plane  is  unfit  for  our  country. 

It  was  selected  for  London  plantations,  as  the 
Thames  Embankment,  because  its  peeling  bark 
was  believed  to  protect  it  against  the  deposit  of 
sooty  particles,  and  because  it  grows  quickly.  For 
use  in  London  itself  it  may  be  preferable  :  for 
semi-country  seats,  as  the  modern  houses  sur- 
rounded with  their  own  grounds  assume  to  be,  it 
is  unsightly.  It  has  no  association.  No  one  has 
seen  a  plane  in  a  hedgerow,  or  a  wood,  or  a  copse. 
There  are  no  fragments  of  English  history  clinging 
to  it  as  there  are  to  the  oak. 

If  trees  of  the  plane  class  be  desirable,  sycamores 
may  be  planted,  as  they  have  in  a  measure  become 
acclimatised.  If  trees  that  grow  fast  are  required, 
there  are  limes  and  horse-chestnuts ;  the  lime  will 
run  a  race  with  any  tree.  The  lime,  too,  has  a 


TREES    ABOUT    TOWN 

pale  yellow  blossom,  to  which  bees  resort  in  num- 
bers, making  a  pleasant  hum,  which  seems  the 
natural  accompaniment  of  summer  sunshine.  Its 
leaves  are  put  forth  early. 

Horse-chestnuts,  too,  grow  quickly  and  without 
any  attention,  the  bloom  is  familiar,  and  acknowl- 
edged to  be  fine,  and  in  autumn  the  large  sprays 
of  leaves  take  orange  and  even  scarlet  tints.  The 
plane  is  not  to  be  mentioned  beside  either  of  them. 
Other  trees  as  well  as  the  plane  would  have  flour- 
ished on  the  Thames  Embankment,  in  consequence 
of  the  current  of  fresh  air  caused  by  the  river. 
Imagine  the  Embankment  with  double  rows  of 
oaks,  elms,  or  beeches ;  or,  if  not,  even  with  limes 
or  horse-chestnuts  !  To  these  certainly  birds  would 
have  resorted  —  possibly  rooks,  which  do  not  fear 
cities.  On  such  a  site  the  experiment  would  have 
been  worth  making. 

If  in  the  semi-country  seats  fast-growing  trees 
are  needed,  there  are,  as  I  have  observed,  the  lime 
and  horse-chestnut ;  and  if  more  variety  be  desired, 
add  the  Spanish  chestnut  and  the  walnut.  The 
Spanish  chestnut  is  a  very  fine  tree ;  the  walnut, 
it  is  true,  grows  slowly.  If  as  many  beeches  as 
cedar  deodaras  and  laurels  and  planes  were  planted 
in  these  grounds,  in  due  course  of  time  the  tap  of 
the  woodpecker  would  be  heard  :  a  sound  truly 

worth  ten  thousand  laurels.     At  Kew,  far  closer 

—  235  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     «= 


to  town  than  many  of  the  semi-country  seats  are 
now,  all  our  trees  flourish  in  perfection. 

Hardy  birches,  too,  will  grow  in  thin  soil.  Just 
compare  the  delicate  drooping  boughs  of  birch  — 
they  could  not  have  been  more  delicate  if  sketched 
with  a  pencil  —  compare  these  with  the  gaunt 
planes ! 

Of  all  the  foreign  shrubs  that  have  been  brought 
to  these  shores,  there  is  not  one  that  presents  us 
with  so  beautiful  a  spectacle  as  the  bloom  of  the 
common  old  English  hawthorn  in  May.  The  mass 
of  blossom,  the  pleasant  fragrance,  its  divided  and 
elegant  leaf,  place  it  far  above  any  of  the  impor- 
tations. Besides  which,  the  traditions  and  associa- 
tions of  the  May  give  it  a  human  interest. 

The  hawthorn  is  a  part  of  natural  English  life 
—  country  life.  It  stands  side  by  side  with  the 
Englishman,  as  the  palm  tree  is  pictured  side  by 
side  with  the  Arab.  You  cannot  pick  up  an  old 
play,  or  book  of  the  time  when  old  English  life 
was  in  the  prime,  without  finding  some  reference 
to  the  hawthorn.  There  is  nothing  of  this  in  the 
laurel,  or  any  shrub  whatever  that  may  be  thrust 
in  with  a  ticket  to  tell  you  its  name;  it  has  a 
ticket  because  it  has  no  interest,  or  else  you  would 
know  it. 

For  use  there  is  nothing  like  hawthorn ;  it 
will  trim  into  a  thick  hedge,  defending  the  en- 
-236- 


yr~-^x        TREES    ABOUT    TOWN 

closure  from  trespassers,  and  warding  off  the  bitter 
winds  ;  or  it  will  grow  into  a  tree.  Again,  the 
old  hedge-crab — the  common,  despised  crab-apple 
—  in  spring  is  covered  with  blossom,  such  a  mass 
of  blossom  that  it  may  be  distinguished  a  mile. 
Did  any  one  ever  see  a  plane  or  a  laurel  look  like 
that  ? 

How  pleasant,  too,  to  see  the  clear  white  flower 
of  the  blackthorn  come  out  in  the  midst  of  the 
bitter  easterly  breezes  !  It  is  like  a  white  hand- 
kerchief beckoning  to  the  sun  to  come.  There 
will  not  be  much  more  frost ;  if  the  wind  is  bitter 
to-day,  the  sun  is  rapidly  gaining  power.  Prob- 
ably, if  a  blackthorn  bush  were  by  any  chance  dis- 
covered in  the  semi-parks  or  enclosures  alluded  to, 
it  would  at  once  be  rooted  out  as  an  accursed 
thing.  The  very  brambles  are  superior ;  there  is 
the  flower,  the  sweet  berry,  and  afterwards  the 
crimson  leaves — three  things  in  succession. 

What  can  the  world  produce  equal  to  the  June 
rose  ?  The  common  briar,  the  commonest  of  all, 
offers  a  flower  which,  whether  in  itself,  or  the 
moment  of  its  appearance  at  the  juncture  of  all 
sweet  summer  things,  or  its  history  and  associations, 
is  not  to  be  approached  by  anything  a  millionaire 
could  purchase.  The  labourer  casually  gathers  it 
as  he  goes  to  his  work  in  the  field,  and  yet  none 
of  the  rich  families  whose  names  are  synonymous 
—  z37  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

with  wealth  can  get  anything  to  equal  it  if  they 
ransack  the  earth. 

After  these,  fill  every  nook  and  corner  with 
hazel,  and  make  filbert  walks.  Up  and  down 
such  walks  men  strolled  with  rapiers  by  their  sides 
while  our  admirals  were  hammering  at  the  Span- 
iards with  culverin  and  demi-cannon,  and  looked 
at  the  sundial  and  adjourned  for  a  game  at  bowls, 
wishing  that  they  only  had  a  chance  to  bowl  shot 
instead  of  peaceful  wood.  Fill  in  the  corners 
with  nut  trees,  then,  and  make  filbert  walks.  All 
these  are  like  old  story  books,  and  the  old  stories 
are  always  best. 

Still,  there  are  others  for  variety,  as  the  wild 
guelder  rose,  which  produces  heavy  bunches  of  red 
berries;  dogwood,  whose  leaves  when  frost-touched 
take  deep  colours ;  barberry,  yielding  a  pleasantly 
acid  fruit  j  the  wayfaring  tree  ;  not  even  forgetting 
the  elder,  but  putting  it  at  the  outside,  because, 
though  flowering,  the  scent  is  heavy,  and  because 
the  elder  was  believed  of  old  time  to  possess  some 
of  the  virtue  now  attributed  to  the  blue  gum,  and 
to  neutralise  malaria  by  its  own  odour. 

For  colour  add  the  wild  broom  and  some  furze. 
Those  who  have  seen  broom  in  full  flower,  golden 
to  the  tip  of  every  slender  bough,  cannot  need 
any  persuasion,  surely,  to  introduce  it.  Furze  is 
specked  with  yellow  when  the  skies  are  dark  and 
_238_ 


TREES    ABOUT    TOWN 

storms  sweep  around,  besides  its  prime  display. 
Let  wild  ctematis  climb  wherever  it  will.  Then 
laurels  may  come  after  these,  put  somewhere  by 
themselves,  with  their  thick  changeless  leaves,  un- 
pleasant to  the  touch;  no  one  ever  gathers  a  spray. 

Rhododendrons  it  is  unkind  to  attack,  for  in 
themselves  they  afford  a  rich  flower.  It  is  not  the 
rhododendron,  but  the  abuse  of  it,  which  must  be 
protested  against.  Whether  the  soil  suits  or  not 
—  and,  for  the  most  part,  it  does  not  suit  —  rho- 
dodendrons are  thrust  in  everywhere.  Just  walk 
in  amongst  them — behind  the  show  —  and  look 
at  the  spindly,  crooked  stems,  straggling  how  they 
may,  and  then  look  at  the  earth  under  them,  where 
not  a  weed  even  will  grow.  The  rhododendron 
is  admirable  in  its  place,  but  it  is  often  overdone 
and  a  failure,  and  has  no  right  to  exclude  those 
shrubs  that  are  fitter.  Most  of  the  foreign  shrubs 
about  these  semi-country  seats  look  exactly  like 
the  stiff  and  painted  little  wooden  trees  that  are 
sold  for  children's  toys,  and,  like  the  toys,  are  the 
same  colour  all  the  year  round. 

Now,  if  you  enter  a  copse  in  spring  the  eye  is 
delighted  with  cowslips  on  the  banks  where  the 
sunlight  comes,  with  bluebells,  or  earlier  with 
anemones  and  violets,  while  later  the  ferns  rise. 
But  enter  the  semi-parks  of  the  semi-country  seat, 
with  its  affected  assumption  of  countryness,  and 
—  239  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON    sr 


there  is  not  one  of  these.  The  fern  is  actually 
purposely  eradicated  —  just  think  !  Purposely  ! 
Though  indeed  they  would  not  grow,  one  would 
think,  under  rhododendrons  and  laurels,  cold- 
blooded laurels.  They  will  grow  under  hawthorn, 
ash,  or  beside  the  bramble  bushes. 

If  there  chance  to  be  a  little  pond  or  "  fountain," 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  a  reed,  or  a  flag,  or  a 
rush.  How  the  rushes  would  be  hastily  hauled 
out  and  hurled  away  with  execrations  ! 

Besides  the  greater  beauty  of  English  trees, 
shrubs,  and  plants,  they  also  attract  the  birds, 
without  which  the  grandest  plantation  is  a  vacancy, 
and  another  interest,  too,  arises  from  watching  the 
progress  of  their  growth  and  the  advance  of  the 
season.  Our  own  trees  and  shrubs  literally  keep 
pace  with  the  stars  which  shine  in  our  northern 
skies.  An  astronomical  floral  almanack  might 
almost  be  constructed,  showing  how,  as  the  con- 
stellations marched  on  by  night,  the  buds  and 
leaves  and  flowers  appeared  by  day. 

The  lower  that  brilliant  Sirius  sinks  in  the 
western  sky  after  ruling  the  winter  heavens,  and 
the  higher  that  red  Arcturus  rises,  so  the  buds 
thicken,  open,  and  bloom.  When  the  Pleiades 
begin  to  rise  in  the  early  evening,  the  leaves  are 
turning  colour,  and  the  seed  vessels  of  the  flowers 
take  the  place  of  the  petals.  The  coincidences  of 
—  240  — 


TREES    ABOUT    TOWN 

floral  and  bird  life,  and  of  these  with  the  move- 
ments of  the  heavens,  impart  a  sense  of  breadth  to 
their  observation. 

It  is  not  only  the  violet  or  the  anemone,  there 
are  the  birds  coming  from  immense  distances  to 
enjoy  the  summer  with  us ;  there  are  the  stars 
appearing  in  succession,  so  that  the  most  distant 
of  objects  seems  brought  into  connection  with  the 
nearest,  and  the  world  is  made  one.  The  sharp  dis- 
tinction, the  line  artificially  drawn  between  things, 
quite  disappears  when  they  are  thus  associated. 

Birds,  as  just  remarked,  are  attracted  by  our 
own  trees  and  shrubs.  Oaks  are  favourites  with 
rooks  and  wood-pigeons ;  blackbirds  whistle  in 
them  in  spring ;  if  there  is  a  pheasant  about  in 
autumn  he  is  sure  to  come  under  the  oak ;  jays 
visit  them.  Elms  are  resorted  to  by  most  of  the 
larger  birds.  Ash  plantations  attract  wood-pigeons 
and  turtledoves.  Thrushes  are  fond  of  the  ash, 
and  sing  much  on  its  boughs.  The  beech  is  the 
woodpecker's  tree  so  soon  as  it  grows  old  —  birch 
one  of  the  missel-thrush's. 

In  blackthorn  the  long-tailed  tit  builds  the  domed 
nest  every  one  admires.  Under  the  cover  of 
brambles  white-throats  build.  Nightingales  love 
hawthorn,  and  so  does  every  bird.  Plant  haw- 
thorn, and  almost  every  bird  will  come  to  it,  from 
the  wood-pigeon  down  to  the  wren.  Do  not  clear 

16  —  241  — 


^^^     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     SH-3K 

away  the  fallen  branches  and  brown  leaves,  sweep- 
ing the  plantation  as  if  it  were  the  floor  of  a  ball- 
room, for  it  is  just  the  tangle  and  the  wilderness 
that  brings  the  birds,  and  they  like  the  disarray. 

If  evergreens  are  wanted,  there  are  the  yew,  the 
box,  and  holly  —  all  three  well  sanctioned  by  old 
custom.  Thrushes  will  come  for  the  yew  berries, 
and  birds  are  fond  of  building  in  the  thick  cover 
of  high  box  hedges.  Notwithstanding  the  prickly 
leaves,  they  slip  in  and  out  of  the  holly  easily.  A 
few  bunches  of  rushes  and  sedges,  with  some 
weeds  and  aquatic  grasses,  allowed  to  grow  about 
a  pond,  will  presently  bring  moorhens.  Bare 
stones  —  perhaps  concrete  —  will  bring  nothing. 

If  a  bough  falls  into  the  water;  let  it  stay  ; 
sparrows  will  perch  on  it  to  drink.  If  a  sandy 
drinking-place  can  be  made  for  them  the  number 
of  birds  that  will  come  in  the  course  of  the  day 
will  be  surprising. 

Kind-hearted  people,  when  winter  is  approaching, 
should  have  two  posts  sunk  in  their  grounds,  with 
planks  across  at  the  top ;  a  raised  platform  with  the 
edges  projecting  beyond  the  posts,  so  that  cats  can- 
not climb  up,  and  of  course  higher  than  a  cat  can 
spring.  The  crumbs  cast  out  upon  this  platform 
would  gather  crowds  of  birds ;  they  will  come  to 
feel  at  home,  and  in  spring  time  will  return  to 
build  and  sing. 


TO    BRIGHTON 


THE   smooth    express    to   Brighton    has 
scarcely,  as  it  seems,  left  the  metrop- 
olis when  the   banks  of  the   railway 
become   coloured   with  wild    flowers. 
Seen  for  a  moment  in  swiftly  passing,  they  border 
the  line  like  a  continuous  garden.      Driven  from 
the  fields  by  plough  and   hoe,  cast  out  from  the 
pleasure-grounds  of  modern  houses,  pulled  up  and 
hurled  over  the  wall  to  wither  as  accursed  things, 
they  have  taken  refuge  on  the  embankment  and 
the  cutting. 

There  they  can  flourish  and  ripen  their  seeds, 
little  harassed  even  by  the  scythe  and  never  by 
grazing  cattle.  So  it  happens  that,  extremes  meet- 
ing, the  wild  flower,  with  its  old-world  associations, 
often  grows  most  freely  within  a  few  feet  of  the 
wheels  of  the  locomotive.  Purple  heathbells  gleam 
from  shrub-like  bunches  dotted  along  the  slope; 
purple  knapweeds  lower  down  in  the  grass ;  blue 
scabious,  yellow  hawkweeds  where  the  soil  is  thin- 
ner, and  harebells  on  the  very  summit :  these  are 
but  a  few  upon  which  the  eye  lights  while  gliding  by, 
—  243  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON    ss 


Glossy  thistledown,  heedless  whither  it  goes, 
comes  in  at  the  open  window.  Between  thickets 
of  broom  there  is  a  glimpse  down  into  a  meadow 
shadowed  by  the  trees  of  a  wood.  It  is  bordered 
with  the  cool  green  of  brake  fern,  from  which  a 
rabbit  has  come  forth  to  feed,  and  a  pheasant  strolls 
along  with  a  mind,  perhaps,  to  the  barley  yonder. 
Or  a  fox-glove  lifts  its  purple  spire  ;  or  woodbine 
crowns  the  bushes.  The  sickle  has  gone  over, 
and  the  poppies  which  grew  so  thick  a  while  ago 
in  the  corn  no  longer  glow  like  a  scarlet  cloak 
thrown  on  the  ground.  But  red  spots  in  waste 
places  and  by  the  ways  are  where  they  have  escaped 
the  steel. 

A  wood-pigeon  keeps  pace  with  the  train  —  his 
vigorous  pinions  can  race  against  an  engine,  but 
cannot  elude  the  hawk.  He  stops  presently  among 
the  trees.  How  pleasant  it  is  from  the  height  of 
the  embankment  to  look  down  upon  the  tops  of  the 
oaks  !  The  stubbles  stretch  away,  crossed  with 
bands  of  green  roots  where  the  partridges  are  hid- 
ing. Among  flags  and  weeds  the  moorhens  feed 
fearlessly  as  we  roll  over  the  stream  :  then  comes 
a  cutting,  and  more  heath  and  hawkweed,  harebell, 
and  bramble  bushes  red  with  unripe  berries. 

Flowers  grow  high  up  the  sides  of  the  quarries  ; 
flowers  cling  to  the  dry,  crumbling  chalk  of  the 
cliftlike  cutting;  flowers  bloom  on  the  verge  above, 
—  244  — 


2EE3KS?E38:        TO    BRIGHTON 

against  the  line  of  the  sky,  and  over  the  dark  arch 
of  the  tunnel.  This,  it  is  true,  is  summer;  but  it 
is  the  same  in  spring.  Before  a  dandelion  has 
shown  in  the  meadow,  the  banks  of  the  railway  are 
yellow  with  coltsfoot.  After  a  time  the  gorse 
flowers  everywhere  along  them ;  but  the  golden 
broom  overtops  all,  perfect  thickets  of  broom 
glowing  in  the  sunlight. 

Presently  the  copses  are  azure  with  bluebells, 
among  which  the  brake  is  thrusting  itself  up ; 
others,  again,  are  red  with  ragged  robins,  and  the 
fields  adjacent  fill  the  eye  with  the  gaudy  glare  of 
yellow  charlock.  The  note  of  the  cuckoo  sounds 
above  the  rushing  of  the  train,  and  the  larks  may 
be  seen,  if  not  heard,  rising  high  over  the  wheat. 
Some  birds,  indeed,  find  the  bushes  by  the  railway 
the  quietest  place  in  which  to  build  their  nests. 

Butcher-birds  or  shrikes  are  frequently  found  on 
the  telegraph  wires ;  from  that  elevation  they 
pounce  down  on  their  prey,  and  return  again  to 
the  wire.  There  were  two  pairs  of  shrikes  using 
the  telegraph  wires  for  this  purpose  one  spring 
only  a  short  distance  beyond  noisy  Clapham  Junc- 
tion. Another  pair  came  back  several  seasons  to  a 
particular  part  of  the  wires,  near  a  bridge,  and  I 
have  seen  a  hawk  perched  on  the  wire  equally  near 
London. 

The  haze  hangs  over  the  wide,  dark  plain, 
—  245  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

which,  soon  after  passing  Redhill,  stretches  away 
on  the  right.  It  seems  to  us  in  the  train  to  extend 
from  the  foot  of  a  great  bluff  there  to  the  first 
rampart  of  the  still  distant  South  Downs.  In  the 
evening  that  haze  will  be  changed  to  a  flood  of 
purple  light  veiling  the  horizon.  Fitful  glances 
at  the  newspaper  or  the  novel  pass  the  time ;  but 
now  I  can  read  no  longer,  for  I  know,  without 
any  marks  or  tangible  evidence,  that  the  hills  are 
drawing  near.  There  is  always  hope  in  the  hills. 

The  dust  of  London  fills  the  eyes  and  blurs  the 
vision ;  but  it  penetrates  deeper  than  that.  There 
is  a  dust  that  chokes  the  spirit,  and  it  is  this  that 
makes  the  streets  so  long,  the  stones  so  stony,  the 
desk  so  wooden ;  the  very  rustiness  of  the  iron 
railings  about  the  offices  sets  the  teeth  on  edge,  the 
sooty  blackened  walls  (yet  without  shadow)  thrust 
back  the  sympathies  which  are  ever  trying  to  cling 
to  the  inanimate  things  around  us.  A  breeze 
comes  in  at  the  carriage  window  —  a  wild  puff, 
disturbing  the  heated  stillness  of  the  summer  day. 
It  is  easy  to  tell  where  that  came  from  —  silently 
the  Downs  have  stolen  into  sight. 

So  easy  is  the  outline  of  the  ridge,  so  broad  and 
flowing  are  the  slopes,  that  those  who  have  not 
mounted  them  cannot  grasp  the  idea  of  their  real 
height  and  steepness.  The  copse  upon  the  summit 
yonder  looks  but  a  short  stroll  distant ;  how  much 


TO    BRIGHTON 


you  would  be  deceived  did  you  attempt  to  walk 
thither  !  The  ascent  here  in  front  seems  nothing, 
but  you  must  rest  before  you  have  reached  a  third 
of  the  way  up.  Ditchling  Beacon  there,  on  the 
left,  is  the  very  highest  above  the  sea  of  the  whole 
mighty  range,  but  so  great  is  the  mass  of  the  hill 
that  the  glance  does  not  realise  it. 

Hope  dwells  there,  somewhere,  mayhap,  in  the 
breeze,  in  the  sward,  or  the  pale  cups  of  the  hare- 
bells. Now,  having  gazed  at  these,  we  can  lean 
back  on  the  cushions  and  wait  patiently  for  the  sea. 
There  is  nothing  else,  except  the  noble  sycamores 
on  the  left  hand  just  before  the  train  draws  into 
the  station. 

The  clean  dry  brick  pavements  are  scarcely  less 
crowded  than  those  of  London,  but  as  you  drive 
through  the  town,  now  and  then  there  is  a  glimpse 
of  a  greenish  mist  afar  off  between  the  houses. 
The  green  mist  thickens  in  one  spot  almost  at  the 
horizon  ;  or  is  it  the  dark  nebulous  sails  of  a 
vessel  ?  Then  the  foam  suddenly  appears  close 
at  hand  —  a  white  streak  seems  to  run  from  house 
to  house,  reflecting  the  sunlight ;  and  this  is 
Brighton. 

"  How   different    the   sea  looks  away  from  the 

pier !  "     It  is  a  new  pleasure  to  those  who  have 

been  full  of  gaiety  to  see,  for  once,  the  sea  itself. 

Westwards,  a  mile  beyond  Hove,  beyond  the  coast- 

—  247  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

guard  cottages,  turn  aside  from  the  road,  and  go  up 
on  the  rough  path  along  the  ridge  of  shingle.  The 
hills  are  away  on  the  right,  the  sea  on  the  left ; 
the  yards  of  the  ships  in  the  basin  slant  across  the 
sky  in  front. 

With  a  quick,  sudden  heave  the  summer  sea, 
calm  and  gleaming,  runs  a  little  way  up  the  side 
of  the  groyne,  and  again  retires.  There  is  scarce 
a  gurgle  or  a  bubble,  but  the  solid  timbers  are 
polished  and  smooth  where  the  storms  have  worn 
them  with  pebbles.  From  a  grassy  spot  ahead  a 
bird  rises,  marked  with  white,  and  another  follows 
it ;  they  are  wheatears ;  they  frequent  the  land  by 
the  low  beach  in  the  autumn. 

A  shrill  but  feeble  pipe  is  the  cry  of  the  sand- 
piper, disturbed  on  his  moist  feeding-ground. 
Among  the  stones  by  the  waste  places  there  are 
pale-green  wrinkled  leaves,  and  the  large  yellow 
petals  of  the  sea-poppy.  The  bright  colour  is 
pleasant,  but  it  is  a  flower  best  left  ungathered,  for 
its  odour  is  not  sweet.  On  the  wiry  sward  the  light 
pink  of  the  sea-daisies  (or  thrift)  is  dotted  here  and 
there  :  of  these  gather  as  you  will.  The  presence 
even  of  such  simple  flowers,  of  such  well-known 
birds,  distinguishes  the  solitary  from  the  trodden 
beach.  The  pier  is  in  view,  but  the  sea  is  dif- 
ferent here. 

Drive  eastwards  along  the  cliff's  to  the  rough 
_248- 


TO    BRIGHTON       a^^a^ar 

steps  cut  down  to  the  beach,  descend  to  the  shingle, 
and  stroll  along  the  shore  to  Rottingdean.  The 
buttresses  of  chalk  shut  out  the  town  if  you  go  to 
them,  and  rest  near  the  large  pebbles  heaped  at  the 
foot.  There  is  nothing  but  the  white  cliff,  the 
green  sea,  the  sky,  and  the  slow  ships  that  scarcely 
stir. 

In  the  spring,  a  starling  comes  to  his  nest  in  a 
cleft  of  the  cliff  above  ;  he  shoots  over  from  the  dizzy 
edge,  spreads  his  wings,  borne  up  by  the  ascending 
air,  and  in  an  instant  is  landed  in  his  cave.  On 
the  sward  above,  in  the  autumn,  the  yellow  lip  of 
the  toad-flax,  spotted  with  orange,  peers  from  the 
grass  as  you  rest  and  gaze  —  how  far  ?  —  out  upon 
the  glorious  plain. 

Or  go  up  on  the  hill  by  the  race-course,  the 
highest  part  near  the  sea,  and  sit  down  there  on  the 
turf.  If  the  west  or  south  wind  blow  ever  so 
slightly  the  low  roar  of  the  surge  floats  up,  min- 
gling with  the  rustle  of  the  corn  stacked  in  shocks 
on  the  slope.  There  inhale  unrestrained  the  breeze, 
the  sunlight,  and  the  subtle  essence  which  emanates 
from  the  ocean.  For  the  loneliest  of  places  are  on 
the  borders  of  a  gay  crowd,  and  thus  in  Brighton 
—  the  by-name  for  all  that  is  crowded  and  London- 
like —  it  is  possible  to  dream  on  the  sward  and  on 
the  shore. 

In  the  midst,  too,  of  this  most  modern  of  cities, 
_249_ 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     S& 


with  its  swift,  luxurious  service  of  Pullman  cars, 
its  piers,  and  social  pleasures,  there  exists  a  collec- 
tion which  in  a  few  strokes,  as  it  were,  sketches 
the  ways  and  habits  and  thoughts  of  old  rural 
England.  It  is  not  easy  to  realise  in  these  days 
of  quick  transit  and  still  quicker  communication 
that  old  England  was  mostly  rural. 

There  were  towns,  of  course,  seventy  years  ago, 
but  even  the  towns  were  penetrated  with  what,  for 
want  of  a  better  word,  may  be  called  country 
sentiment.  Just  the  reverse  is  now  the  case ;  the 
most  distant  hamlet  which  the  wanderer  in  his 
autumn  ramblings  may  visit,  is  now  more  or  less 
permeated  with  the  feelings  and  sentiment  of  the 
city.  No  written  history  has  preserved  the  daily 
life  of  the  men  who  ploughed  the  Weald  behind 
the  hills  there,  or  tended  the  sheep  on  the  Downs, 
before  our  beautiful  land  was  crossed  with  iron 
roads ;  while  news,  even  from  the  field  of  Water- 
loo, had  to  travel  slowly.  And,  after  all,  written 
history  is  but  words,  and  words  are  not  tangible. 

But  in  this  collection  of  old  English  jugs,  and 
mugs,  and  bowls,  and  cups,  and  so  forth,  exhibited 
in  the  Museum,  there  is  the  real  presentment  of 
old  rural  England.  Feeble  pottery  has  ever  borne 
the  impress  of  man  more  vividly  than  marble. 
From  these  they  quenched  their  thirst,  over  these 
they  laughed  and  joked,  and  gossiped,  and  sang  old 
—  250  — 


TO    BRIGHTON 


hunting  songs  till  the  rafters  rang,  and  the  dogs 
under  the  table  got  up  and  barked.  Cannot  you 
see  them  ?  The  stubbles  are  ready  now  once  more 
for  the  sportsmen. 

With  long-barrelled  flint-lock  guns  they  ranged 
over  that  wonderful  map  of  the  land  which  lies 
spread  out  at  your  feet  as  you  look  down  from  the 
Dyke.  There  are  already  yellowing  leaves  ;  they 
will  be  brown  after  a  while,  and  the  covers  will 
be  ready  once  more  for  the  visit  of  the  hounds. 
The  toast  upon  this  mug  would  be  very  gladly 
drunk  by  the  agriculturist  of  to-day  in  his  silk  hat 
and  black  coat.  It  is  just  what  he  has  been 
wishing  these  many  seasons. 

"  Here  's  to  thee,  mine  honest  friend, 
Wishing  these  hard  times  to  mend." 

Hard  times,  then,  are  nothing  new. 

"  It  is  good  ale,"  is  the  inscription  on  another 
jug ;  that  jug  would  be  very  welcome  if  so  filled  in 
many  a  field  this  very  day.  "  Better  luck  still  " 
is  a  jug  motto  which  every  one  who  reads  it  will 
secretly  respond  to.  Cock-fighting  has  gone  by, 
but  we  are  eVen  more  than  ever  on  the  side  of  fair 
play,  and  in  that  sense  can  endorse  the  motto, 
"  May  the  best  cock  win."  A  cup  desires  that 
fate  should  give 

"  Money  to  him  who  has  spirit  to  use  it, 
And  life  to  him  who  has  courage  to  lose  it." 
—  251  — 


*E^3g     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     se^g 

A  mug  is  moderate  of  wishes  and  somewhat 
cynical :  — 

"  A  little  health,  a  little  wealth, 
A  little  house,  and  freedom  ; 
And  at  the  end  a  little  friend, 
And  little  cause  to  need  him." 

The  toper,  if  he  drank  too  deep,  sometimes 
found  a  frog  or  newt  at  the  bottom  (in  china)  — 
a  hint  not  to  be  too  greedy.  There  seem  to  have 
been  sad  dogs  about  in  those  days  from  the  picture 
on  this  piece  —  one  sniffing  regretfully  at  the 
bunghole  of  an  empty  barrel :  — 

"  This  cask  when  stored  with  gin  I  loved  to  taste, 
But  now  a  smell,  alas  !  must  break  my  fast." 

Upon  a  cup  a  somewhat  Chinese  arrangement 
of  words  is  found  :  — 

More  beer  score  Clarke 

for  my  the  his 

do  trust  pay  sent 

I  I  must  has 

shall  if  you  maltster 

what  for  and  the 

These  parallel  columns  can  be  deciphered  by 
beginning  at  the  last  word,  "  the,"  -on  the  right 
hand,  and  reading  up.  With  rude  and  sometimes 
grim  humour  our  forefathers  seem  to  have  been 
delighted.  The  teapots  of  our  great-grandmothers 
are  even  more  amusingly  inscribed  and  illustrated. 
At  Gretna-green  the  blacksmith  is  performing  a 


TO    BRIGHTON 


"  Red    Hot    Marriage,"    using    his    anvil   for  the 
altar. 

"  Oh  !  Mr.  Blacksmith,  ease  our  pains, 
And  tie  us  fast  in  wedlock's  chains." 

The  china  decorated  with  vessels  and  alluding 
to  naval  matters  shows  how  popular  was  the  navy, 
and  how  deeply  everything  concerning  Nelson's 
men  had  sunk  into  the  minds  of  the  people. 
Some  of  the  line  of  battle  ships  here  represented 
are  most  cleverly  executed  —  every  sail  and  rope 
and  gun  brought  out  with  a  clearness  which  the 
best  draughtsman  could  hardly  excel.  It  is  a  little 
hard,  however,  to  preserve  the  time-honoured  im- 
putation upon  Jack's  constancy  in  this  way  on 
a  jug:  — 

"  A  sailor's  life  's  a  pleasant  life, 

He  freely  roams  from  shore  to  shore ; 
In  every  port  he  finds  a  wife  — 
What  can  a  sailor  wish  for  more  ?  " 

Some  enamoured  potter  having  produced  a  mas- 
terpiece as  a  present  to  his  lady  destroyed  the  de- 
sign, so  that  the  service  he  gave  her  might  be 
unique.  After  gazing  at  these  curious  old  pieces, 
with  dates  of  1754,  1728,  and  so  forth,  the  mind 
becomes  attuned  to  such  times,  and  the  jug  with 
the  inscription,  "Claret,  1652,"  seems  quite  an 
easy  and  natural  transition. 

From  the  Brighton  of  to-day  it  is  centuries  back 
to  1754;  but  from  1754  to  1652  is  but  a  year  or 
—  253  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

two.  And  after  studying  these  shelves,  and  get- 
ting, as  it  were,  so  deep  down  into  the  past,  it  is 
with  a  kind  of  Rip  Van  Winkle  feeling  that  you 
enter  again  into  the  sunshine  of  the  day.  The 
fair  upon  the  beach  does  not  seem  quite  real  for 
a  few  minutes. 

Before  the  autumn  is  too  far  advanced  and  the 
skies  are  uncertain,  a  few  hours  should  be  given  to 
that  massive  Down  which  fronts  the  traveller  from 
London,  Ditchling  Beacon,  the  highest  above  the 
sea-level.  It  is  easy  of  access,  the  train  carries 
you  to  Hassock's  Gate  —  the  station  is  almost  in 
a  copse  —  and  an  omnibus  runs  from  it  to  a 
comfortable  inn  in  the  centre  of  Ditchling  village. 
Thence  to  the  Down  itself  the  road  is  straight, 
and  the  walk  no  longer  than  is  always  welcome 
after  riding. 

After  leaving  the  cottages  and  gardens,  the  road 
soon  becomes  enclosed  with  hedges  and  trees, 
a  mere  country  lane  ;  and  how  pleasant  are  the 
trees  after  the  bare  shore  and  barren  sea !  The 
hand  of  autumn  has  browned  the  oaks,  and  has 
passed  over  the  hedge,  reddening  the  haws.  The 
north  wind  rustles  the  dry  hollow  stalks  of  plants 
upon  the  mound,  and  there  is  a  sense  of  hardihood 
in  the  touch  of  its  breath. 

The  light  is  brown,  for  a  vapour  conceals  the 
sun  —  it  is  not  like  a  cloud,  for  it  has  no  end  or 


TO    BRIGHTON 


outline,  and  it  is  high  above  where  the  summer 
blue  was  lately.  Or  is  it  the  buff  leaves,  the  grey 
stalks,  the  dun  grasses,  the  ripe  fruit,  the  mist 
which  hides  the  distance  that  makes  the  day  so 
brown  ?  But  the  ditches  below  are  yet  green  with 
brooklime  and  rushes.  By  a  gateway  stands  a  tall 
campanula  or  bell-flower,  two  feet  high  or  nearly, 
with  great  bells  of  blue. 

A  passing  shepherd,  without  his  sheep,  but 
walking  with  his  crook  as  a  staff,  stays  and  turns  a 
brown  face  towards  me  when  I  ask  him  the  way. 
He  points  with  his  iron  crook  at  a  narrow  line 
which  winds  up  the  Down  by  some  chalk-pits  ;  it 
is  a  footpath  from  the  corner  of  the  road.  Just 
by  the  corner  the  hedge  is  grey  with  silky  flocks 
of  clematis ;  the  hawthorn  is  hidden  by  it.  Near 
by  there  is  a  bush,  made  up  of  branches  from  five 
different  shrubs  and  plants. 

First  hazel,  from  which  the  yellow  leaves  are 
fast  dropping;  among  this  dogwood,  with  leaves 
darkening  ;  between  these  a  bramble  bearing  berries, 
some  red  and  some  ripe,  and  yet  a  pink  flower 
or  two  left.  Thrusting  itself  into  the  tangle,  long 
woody  bines  of  bittersweet  hang  their  clusters  of 
red  berries,  and  above  and  over  all  the  hoary 
clematis  spreads  its  beard,  whitening  to  meet  the 
winter.  These  five  are  all  intermixed  and  bound 
up  together,  flourishing  in  a  mass ;  nuts  and  edible 
-255  — 


a^as;     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

berries,  semi-poisonous  fruit,  flowers,  creepers  ;  and 
hazel,  with  markings  under  its  outer  bark  like  a 
gun-barrel. 

This  is  the  last  of  the  plain.  Now  every  step 
exposes  the  climber  to  the  force  of  the  unchecked 
wind.  The  harebells  swing  before  it,  the  ben  nets 
whistle,  but  the  sward  springs  to  the  foot,  and  the 
heart  grows  lighter  as  the  height  increases.  The 
ancient  hill  is  alone  with  the  wind.  The  broad 
summit  is  left  to  scattered  furze  and  fern  cowering 
under  its  shelter.  A  sunken  fosse  and  earthwork 
have  slipped  together.  So  lowly  are  they  now 
after  these  fourteen  hundred  years  that  in  places 
the  long  rough  grass  covers  and  conceals  them 
altogether. 

Down  in  the  hollow  the  breeze  does  not  come, 
and  the  bennets  do  not  whistle,  yet  gazing  upwards 
at  the  vapour  in  the  sky  I  fancy  I  can  hear  the 
mass,  as  it  were,  of  the  wind  going  over.  Stand- 
ing presently  at  the  edge  of  the  steep  descent  look- 
ing into  the  Weald,  it  seems  as  if  the  mighty  blast 
rising  from  that  vast  plain  and  glancing  up  the 
slope  like  an  arrow  from  a  tree  could  lift  me  up 
and  bear  me  as  it  bears  a  hawk  with  outspread 
wings. 

A  mist  which  does  not  roll  along  or  move  is 
drawn  across  the  immense  stage  below  like  a  cur- 
tain. There  is,  indeed,  a  brown  wood  beneath ; 
-256- 


TO    BRIGHTON 


but  nothing  more  is  visible.  The  plain  is  the 
vaster  for  its  vague  uncertainty.  From  the  north 
comes  down  the  wind,  out  of  the  brown  autumn 
light,  from  the  woods  below  and  twenty  miles  of 
stubble.  Its  stratum  and  current  is  eight  hundred 
feet  deep. 

Against  my  chest,  coming  up  from  the  plough 
down  there  (the  old  plough,  with  the  shaft  moving 
on  a  framework  with  wheels),  it  hurls  itself  against 
the  green  ramparts,  and  bounds  up  savagely  at  de- 
lay. The  ears  are  filled  with  a  continuous  sense 
of  something  rushing  past ;  the  shoulders  go  back 
square;  an  iron-like  feeling  enters  into  the  sinews. 
The  air  goes  through  my  coat  as  if  it  were  gauze, 
and  strokes  the  skin  like  a  brush. 

The  tide  of  the  wind,  like  the  tide  of  the  sea, 
swirls  about,  and  its  cold  push  at  the  first  causes  a 
lifting  feeling  in  the  chest  —  a  gulp  and  pant  —  as 
if  it  were  too  keen  and  strong  to  be  borne.  Then 
the  blood  meets  it,  and  every  fibre  and  nerve  is 
filled  with  new  vigour.  I  cannot  drink  enough 
of  it.  This  is  the  north  wind. 

High  as  is  the  hill,  there  are  larks  yonder  singing 
higher  still,  suspended  in  the  brown  light.  Turn- 
ing away  at  last  and  tracing  the  fosse,  there  is,  at 
the  point  where  it  is  deepest  and  where  there  is 
some  trifling  shelter,  a  flat  hawthorn  bush.  It  has 
grown  as  flat  as  a  hurdle,  as  if  trained  espalierwise 
17  —257  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

or  against  a  wall  —  the  effect,  no  doubt,  of  the 
winds.  Into  and  between  its  gnarled  branches, 
dry  and  leafless,  furze  boughs  have  been  woven  in 
and  out,  so  as  to  form  a  shield  against  the  breeze. 
On  the  lee  of  this  natural  hurdle  there  are  black 
charcoal  fragments  and  ashes,  where  a  fire  has 
burnt  itself  out ;  the  stick  still  leans  over  on  which 
was  hung  the  vessel  used  at  this  wild  bivouac. 

Descending  again  by  the  footpath,  the  spur  of 
the  hill  yonder  looks  larger  and  steeper  and  more 
ponderous  in  the  mist;  it  seems  higher  than  this,  a 
not  unusual  appearance  when  the  difference  in  alti- 
tude is  not  very  great.  The  level  we  are  on  seems 
to  us  beneath  the  level  in  the  distance,  as  the 
future  is  higher  than  the  present.  In  the  hedge 
or  scattered  bushes,  half-way  down  by  the  chalk-pit, 
there  grows  a  spreading  shrub  —  the  wayfaring 
tree  — —  bearing  large,  broad,  downy  leaves  and 
clusters  of  berries,  some  red  and  some  black,  flat- 
tened at  their  sides.  There  are  nuts,  too,  here, 
and  large  sloes  or  wild  bullace.  This  Ditchling 
Beacon  is,  I  think,  the  nearest  and  the  most  acces- 
sible of  the  southern  Alps  from  London  ;  it  is  so 
near  it  may  almost  be  said  to  be  in  the  environs  of 
the  capital.  But  it  is  alone  with  the  wind. 


THE  SOUTHDOWN  SHEPHERD 


iHE  shepherd  came  down  the  hill  carry- 
ing his  greatcoat  slung  at  his  back 
upon  his  crook,  and  balanced  by  the 
long  handle  projecting  in  front.  He 
was  very  ready  and  pleased  to  show  his  crook, 
which,  however,  was  not  so  symmetrical  in  shape 
as  those  which  are  represented  upon  canvas.  Nor 
was  the  handle  straight ;  it  was  a  rough  stick  — 
the  first,  evidently,  that  had  come  to  hand. 

As  there  were  no  hedges  or  copses  near  his 
walks,  he  had  to  be  content  with  this  bent  wand 
till  he  could  get  a  better.  The  iron  crook  itself 
he  said  was  made  by  a  blacksmith  in  a  village  be- 
low. A  good  crook  was  often  made  from  the 
barrel  of  an  old  single-barrel  gun,  such  as  in  their 
decadence  are  turned  over  to  the  birdkeepers. 

About  a  foot  of  the  barrel  being  sawn  off  at  the 
muzzle  end,  there  was  a  tube  at  once  to  fit  the 
staff  into,  while  the  crook  was  formed  by  hammer- 
ing the  tough  metal  into  a  curve  upon  the  anvil. 
So  the  gun  —  the  very  symbol  of  destruction  — 
was  beaten  into  the  pastoral  crook,  the  emblem 
—  259  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

and  implement  of  peace.  These  crooks  of  village 
workmanship  are  now  subject  to  competition  from 
the  numbers  offered  for  sale  at  the  shops  at  the 
market  towns,  where  scores  of  them  are  hung  up 
on  show,  all  exactly  alike,  made  to  pattern,  as  if 
stamped  out  by  machinery. 

Each  village-made  crook  had  an  individuality, 
that  of  the  blacksmith  —  somewhat  rude,  perhaps, 
but  distinctive  —  the  hand  shown  in  the  iron. 
While  talking,  a  wheatear  flew  past,  and  alighted 
near  the  path  —  a  place  they  frequent.  The  opin- 
ion seems  general  that  wheatears  are  not  so  numer- 
ous as  they  used  to  be.  You  can  always  see  two 
or  three  on  the  Downs  in  autumn,  but  the  shep- 
herd said  years  ago  he  had  heard  of  one  man 
catching  seventy  dozen  in  a  day. 

Perhaps  such  wholesale  catches  were  the  cause 
of  the  comparative  deficiency  at  the  present  day, 
not  only  by  actual  diminution  of  numbers,  but  in 
partially  diverting  the  stream  of  migration.  Tra- 
dition is  very  strong  in  birds  (and  all  animated 
creatures) ;  they  return  annually  in  the  face  of 
terrible  destruction,  and  the  individuals  do  not 
seem  to  comprehend  the  danger.  But  by  degrees 
the  race  at  large  becomes  aware  of  and  acknowl- 
edges the  mistake,  and  slowly  the  original  tracks 
are  deserted.  This  is  the  case  with  water-fowl, 
and  even,  some  think,  with  sea-fish. 
—  260  — 


SOUTHDOWN    SHEPHERD 

There  was  not  so  much  game  on  the  part  of  the 
hills  he  frequented  as  he  had  known  when  he  was 
young,  and  with  the  decrease  of  the  game  the  foxes 
had  become  less  numerous.  There  was  less  cover 
as  the  furze  was  ploughed  up.  It  paid,  of  course, 
better  to  plough  it  up,  and  as  much  as  an  addi- 
tional two  hundred  acres  on  a  single  farm  had  been 
brought  under  the  plough  in  his  time.  Partridges 
had  much  decreased,  but  there  were  still  plenty  of 
hares :  he  had  known  the  harriers  sometimes  kill 
two  dozen  a  day. 

Plenty  of  rabbits  still  remained  in  places.  The 
foxes'  earths  were  in  their  burrows  or  sometimes 
under  a  hollow  tree,  and  when  the  word  was  sent 
round  the  shepherds  stopped  them  for  the  hunt  very 
early  in  the  morning.  Foxes  used  to  be  almost 
thick.  He  had  seen  as  many  as  six  (doubtless  the 
vixen  and  cubs)  sunning  themselves  on  the  cliffs 
at  Beachy  Head,  lying  on  ledges  before  their  inac- 
cessible breeding-places,  in  the  face  of  the  chalk. 

At  present  he  did  not  think  there  were  more 
than  two  there.  They  ascended  and  descended 
the  cliff  with  ease,  though  not,  of  course,  the  straight 
wall  or  precipice.  He  had  known  them  fall  over 
and  be  dashed  to  pieces,  as  when  fighting  on  the 
edge,  or  in  winter  by  the  snow  giving  way  under 
them.  As  the  snow  came  drifting  along  the  sum- 
mit of  the  Down  it  gradually  formed  a  projecting 
—  261  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

eave  or  cornice,  projecting  the  length  of  the  arm, 
and  frozen. 

Something  like  this  may  occasionally  be  seen  on 
houses  when  the  partially  melted  snow  has  frozen 
again  before  it  could  quite  slide  off.  Walking  on 
this  at  night,  when  the  whole  ground  was  white 
with  snow,  and  no  part  could  be  distinguished,  the 
weight  of  the  fox  as  he  passed  a  weak  place  caused 
it  to  give  way,  and  he  could  not  save  himself. 
Last  winter  he  had  had  two  lambs,  each  a  month 
old,. killed  by  a  fox  which  ate  the  heads  and  left  the 
bodies ;  the  fox  always  eating  the  head  first,  sev- 
ering it,  whether  of  a  hare,  rabbit,  duck,  or  the 
tender  lamb,  and  "  covering  " —  digging  a  hole  and 
burying  —  that  which  he  cannot  finish.  To  the 
buried  carcase  the  fox  returns  the  next  night  before 
he  kills  again. 

His  dog  was  a  cross  with  a  collie  :  the  old  sheep- 
dogs were  shaggier  and  darker.  Most  of  the 
sheep-dogs  now  used  were  crossed  with  the  collie, 
either  with  Scotch  or  French,  and  were  very  fast 
—  too  fast  in  some  respects.  He  was  careful  not 
to  send  them  much  after  the  flock,  especially  after 
feeding,  when,  in  his  own  words,  the  sheep  had 
"  best  walk  slow  then,  like  folk,"  —  like  human 
beings,  who  are  not  to  be  hastened  after  a  meal. 
If  he  wished  his  dog  to  fetch  the  flock,  he  pointed 
his  arm  in  the  direction  he  wished  the  dog  to  go, 
—  262— 


-^~3Z    SOUTHDOWN    SHEPHERD 


and  said,  "  Put  her  back."  Often  it  was  to  keep 
the  sheep  out  of  turnips  or  wheat,  there  being  no 
fences.  But  he  made  it  a  practice  to  walk  himself 
on  the  side  where  care  was  needed,  so  as  not  to 
employ  the  dog  unless  necessary. 

There  is  something  almost  Australian  in  the 
wide  expanse  of  South  Down  sheepwalks,  and  in 
the  number  of  the  flocks,  to  those  who  have  been 
accustomed  to  the  small  sheltered  meadows  of  the 
vales,  where  forty  or  fifty  sheep  are  about  the  ex- 
tent of  the  stock  on  many  farms.  The  land,  too, 
is  rented  at  colonial  prices,  but  a  few  shillings  per 
acre,  so  different  from  the  heavy  meadow  rents. 
But,  then,  the  sheep-farmer  has  to  occupy  a  certain 
proportion  of  arable  land  as  well  as  pasture,  and 
here  his  heavy  losses  mainly  occur. 

There  is  nothing,  in  fact,  in  this  country  so 
carefully  provided  against  as  the  possibility  of  an 
English  farmer  becoming  wealthy.  Much  down- 
land  is  covered  with  furze;  some  seems  to  produce 
a  grass  too  coarse,  so  that  the  rent  is  really  pro- 
portional. A  sheep  to  an  acre  is  roughly  the 
allowance. 

From  all  directions  along  the  roads  the  bleating 
flocks  concentrate  at  the  right  time  upon  the  hill- 
side where  the  sheep-fair  is  held.  You  can  go  no- 
where in  the  adjacent  town  except  uphill,  and  it 
needs  no  hand-post  to  the  fair  to  those  who  know 
-263- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

a  farmer  when  they  see  him,  the  stream  of  folk 
tender  thither  so  plainly.  It  rains,  as  the  shepherd 
said  it  would;  the  houses  keep  off  the  drift  some- 
what in  the  town,  but  when  this  shelter  is  left 
behind,  the  sward  of  the  hilltop  seems  among  the 
clouds. 

The  descending  vapours  close  in  the  view  on 
every  side.  The  actual  field  underfoot,  the  actual 
site  of  the  fair,  is  visible,  but  the  surrounding  valleys 
and  the  Downs  beyond  them  are  hidden  with  vast 
masses  of  grey  mist.  For  a  moment,  perhaps,  a 
portion  may  lift  as  the  breeze  drives  it  along,  and 
the  bold,  sweeping  curves  of  a  distant  hill  appear, 
but  immediately  the  rain  falls  again  and  the  outline 
vanishes.  The  glance  can  only  penetrate  a  few 
hundred  yards  ;  all  beyond  that  becomes  indistinct, 
and  some  cattle  standing  higher  up  the  hill  are 
vague  and  shadowy. 

Like  a  dew,  the  thin  rain  deposits  a  layer  of  tiny 
globules  on  the  coat ;  the  grass  is  white  with  them  ; 
hurdles,  flakes,  everything  is  as  it  were  the  eighth  of 
an  inch  deep  in  water.  Thus  on  the  hillside,  sur- 
rounded by  the  clouds,  the  fair  seems  isolated  and 
afar  off.  A  great  cart-horse  is  being  trotted  out 
before  the  little  street  of  booths  to  make  him  show 
his  paces ;  they  flourish  the  first  thing  at  hand  — 
a  pole  with  a  red  flag  at  the  end  —  and  the  huge 
frightened  animal  plunges  hither  and  thither  in 
-264- 


3K    SOUTHDOWN    SHEPHERD     2I~ 


clumsy  terror.  You  must  look  out  for  yourself 
and  keep  an  eye  over  your  shoulder,  except  among 
the  sheep-pens. 

There  are  thousands  of  sheep,  all  standing  with 
their  heads  uphill.  At  the  corner  of  each  pen  the 
shepherd  plants  his  crook  upright :  some  of  them 
have  long  brown  handles,  and  these  are  of  hazel 
with  the  bark  on ;  others  are  ash,  and  one  of  wil- 
low. At  the  corners,  too,  just  outside,  the  dogs 
are  chained,  and,  in  addition,  there  is  a  whole  row 
of  dogs  fastened  to  the  tent  pegs.  The  majority 
of  the  dogs  thus  collected  together  from  many 
miles  of  the  Downs  are  either  collies,  or  show  a 
very  decided  trace  of  the  collie. 

One  old  shepherd,  an  ancient  of  the  ancients,  grey 
and  bent,  has  spent  so  many  years  among  his  sheep 
that  he  has  lost  all  notice  and  observation  —  there 
is  no  "speculation  in  his  eye"  for  anything  but  his 
sheep.  In  his  blue  smock  frock,  with  his  brown 
umbrella,  which  he  has  had  no  time  or  thought  to 
open,  he  stands  listening,  all  intent,  to  the  conver- 
sation of  the  gentlemen  who  are  examining  his 
pens.  He  leads  a  young  restless  collie  by  a  chain  ; 
the  links  are  polished  to  a  silvery  brightness  by 
continual  motion;  the  collie  cannot  keep  still; 
now  he  runs  one  side,  now  the  other,  bumping 
the  old  man,  who  is  unconscious  of  everything 
but  the  sheep. 

-a65_ 


3E=^=<g     NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

At  the  verge  of  the  pens  there  stand  four  oxen 
with  their  yokes,  and  the  long  slender  guiding  rod 
of  hazel  placed  lightly  across  the  necks  of  the  two 
foremost.  They  are  quite  motionless,  except  their 
eyes,  and  the  slender  rod,  so  lightly  laid  across, 
will  remain  without  falling.  After  traversing  the 
whole  field,  if  you  return  you  will  find  them 
exactly  in  the  same  position.  Some  black  cattle 
are  scattered  about  on  the  high  ground  in  the 
mist,  which  thickens  beyond  them,  and  fills  up 
the  immense  hollow  of  the  valley. 

In  the  street  of  booths  there  are  the  rounda- 
bouts, the  swings,  the  rifle  galleries  —  like  shooting 
into  the  mouth  of  a  great  trumpet  —  the  shows, 
the  cakes  and  brown  nuts  and  gingerbread,  the 
ale  barrels  in  a  row,  the  rude  forms  and  trestle 
tables ;  just  the  same,  the  very  same,  we  saw  at 
our  first  fair  five  and  twenty  years  ago,  and  a 
hundred  miles  away.  It  is  just  the  same  this 
year  as  last,  like  the  ploughs  and  hurdles,  and 
the  sheep  themselves.  There  is  nothing  new  to 
tempt  the  ploughboy's  pennies  —  nothing  fresh  to 
stare  at. 

The  same  thing  year  after  year,  and  the  same 
sounds  —  the  dismal  barrel  organs,  and  brazen  in- 
struments, and  pipes,  wailing,  droning,  booming. 
How  melancholy  the  inexpressible  noise  when  the 
fair  is  left  behind,  and  the  wet  vapours  are  set- 
—  266  — 


SOUTHDOWN    SHEPHERD     2£E 


ding  and  thickening  around  it !  But  the  melan- 
choly is  not  in  the  fair  —  the  ploughboy  likes 
it ;  it  is  in  ourselves,  in  the  thought  that  thus, 
though  the  years  go  by,  so  much  of  human 
life  remains  the  same  —  the  same  blatant  dis- 
cord, the  same  monotonous  roundabout,  the  same 
poor  gingerbread. 

The  ploughs  are  at  work,  travelling  slowly  at 
the  ox's  pace  up  and  down  the  hillside.  The 
South  Down  plough  could  scarcely  have  been  in- 
vented ;  it  must  have  been  put  together  bit  by 
bit  in  the  slow  years  —  slower  than  the  ox ;  it  is 
the  completed  structure  of  long  experience.  It  is 
made  of  many  pieces,  chiefly  wood,  fitted  and  shaped 
and  worked,  as  it  were,  together,  well  seasoned  first, 
built  up,  like  a  ship,  by  cunning  of  hand. 

None  of  these  were  struck  out  —  a  hundred  a 
minute  —  by  irresistible  machinery  ponderously  im- 
pressing its  will  on  iron  as  a  seal  on  wax  —  a  hun- 
dred a  minute,  and  all  exactly  alike.  These  separate 
pieces  which  compose  the  plough  were  cut,  chosen, 
and  shaped  in  the  wheelwright's  workshop,  chosen 
by  the  eye,  guided  in  its  turn  by  long  knowledge 
of  wood,  and  shaped  by  the  living  though  hardened 
hand  of  man.  So  complicated  a  structure  could 
no  more  have  been  struck  out  on  paper  in  a  de- 
liberate and  single  plan  than  those  separate  pieces 
could  have  been  produced  by  a  single  blow. 
-267- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON    s&i 


There  are  no  machine  lines  —  no  lines  filed 
out  in  iron  or  cut  by  the  lathe  to  the  draughts- 
man's design,  drawn  with  straight-edge  and  ruler 
on  paper.  The  thing  has  been  put  together  bit 
by  bit  :  how  many  thousand,  thousand  clods  must 
have  been  turned  in  the  furrows  before  the  idea 
arose,  and  the  curve  to  be  given  to  this  or  that 
part  grew  upon  the  mind  as  the  branch  grows 
on  the  tree  !  There  is  not  a  sharp  edge  or  sharp 
corner  in  it;  it  is  all  bevelled  and  smoothed  and 
fluted  as  if  it  had  been  patiently  carved  with 
a  knife,  so  that,  touch  it  where  you  will,  it 
handles  pleasantly. 

In  these  curved  lines  and  smoothness,  in  this  per- 
fect adaptability  of  means  to  end,  there  is  the  spirit 
of  art  showing  itself,  not  with  colour  or  crayon, 
but  working  in  tangible  material  substance.  The 
makers  of  this  plough  —  not  the  designer  —  the 
various  makers,  who  gradually  put  it  together, 
had  many  things  to  consider.  The  fields  where 
it  had  to  work  were,  for  the  most  part,  on  a  slope, 
often  thickly  strewn  with  stones  which  jar  and 
fracture  iron. 

The  soil  was  thin,  scarce  enough  on  the  upper 
part  to  turn  a  furrow,  deepening  to  nine  inches 
or  so  at  the  bottom.  So  quickly  does  the  rain 
sink  in,  and  so  quickly  does  it  dry,  that  the  teams 
work  in  almost  every  weather,  while  those  in  the 
—  268  — 


SOUTHDOWN    SHEPHERD 

vale  are  enforced  to  idleness.  Drain  furrows  were 
not  needed,  nor  was  it  desirable  that  the  ground 
should  be  thrown  up  in  "  lands,"  rising  in  the 
centre.  Oxen  were  the  draught  animals,  patient 
enough,  but  certainly  not  nimble.  The  share  had 
to  be  set  for  various  depths  of  soil. 

All  these  are  met  by  the  wheel  plough,  and  in 
addition  it  fulfils  the  indefinite  and  indefinable 
condition  of  handiness.  A  machine  may  be  ap- 
parently perfect,  a  boat  may  seem  on  paper,  and 
examined  on  principles,  the  precise  build,  and  yet 
when  the  one  is  set  to  work  and  the  other  floated 
they  may  fail.  But  the  wheel  plough,  having 
grown  up,  as  it  were,  out  of  the  soil,  fulfils  the 
condition  of  handiness. 

This  handiness,  in  fact,  embraces  a  number  of 
minor  conditions  which  can  scarcely  be  reduced 
to  writing,  but  which  constantly  occur  in  prac- 
tice, and  by  which  the  component  parts  of  the 
plough  were  doubtless  unconsciously  suggested  to 
the  makers.  Each  has  its  proper  name.  The 
framework  on  wheels  in  front  —  the  distinctive 
characteristic  of  the  plough  —  is  called  collectively 
"  tacks,"  and  the  shafts  of  the  plough  rest  on  it 
loosely,  so  that  they  swing  or  work  almost  inde- 
pendently, not  unlike  a  field  gun  limbered  up. 

The  pillars  of  the  framework  have  numerous 
holes,  so  that  the  plough  can  be  raised  or  lowered, 
—  269  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

that  the  share  may  dig  deep  or  shallow.  Then  there 
is  the  "  cock-pin,"  the  "  road-bat  "  (a  crooked  piece 
of  wood),  the  "  sherve-wright  "  (so  pronounced) 
—  shelvewright  (?)  —  the  "  rist,"  and  spindle, 
besides,  of  course,  the  usual  coulter  and  share. 
When  the  oxen  arrive  at  the  top  of  the  fie!d, 
and  the  first  furrow  is  completed,  they  stop,  well 
knowing  their  duty,  while  the  ploughman  moves 
the  iron  rist,  and  the  spindle  which  keeps  it  in 
position,  to  the  other  side,  and  moves  the  road- 
bat  so  as  to  push  the  coulter  aside.  These  oper- 
ations are  done  in  a  minute,  and  correspond  in 
some  degree  to  turning  the  rudder  of  a  ship.  The 
object  is  that  the  plough  which  has  been  turning 
the  earth  one  way,  shall  now  (as  it  is  reversed 
to  go  downhill)  continue  to  turn  it  that  way. 
If  the  change  were  not  effected  when  the  plough 
was  swung  round,  the  furrow  would  be  made 
opposite.  Next  he  leans  heavily  on  the  handles, 
still  standing  on  the  same  spot;  this  lifts  the 
plough,  so  that  it  turns  easily  as  if  on  a  pivot. 

Then  the  oxen  "jack  round"  —  that  is,  walk 
round  —  so  as  to  face  downhill,  the  framework 
in  front  turning  like  the  fore-wheels  of  a  car- 
riage. So  soon  as  they  face  downhill  and  the 
plough  is  turned,  they  commence  work  and  make 
the  second  furrow  side  by  side  with  the  first.  The 
same  operation  is  repeated  at  the  bottom,  and 
—  270— 


SOUTHDOWN    SHEPHERD     25= 


thus  the  plough  travels  straight  up  and  down, 
always  turning  the  furrow  the  same  way,  in- 
stead of,  as  in  the  valleys,  making  a  short  cir- 
cuit at  each  end,  and  throwing  the  earth  in 
opposite  directions.  The  result  is  a  perfectly 
level  field,  which,  though  not  designed  for  it, 
must  suit  the  reaping-machine  better  than  the 
drain  furrows  and  raised  "  lands  "  of  the  valley 
system. 

It  is  somewhat  curious  that  the  steam  plough, 
the  most  remarkable  application  of  machinery  to 
agriculture,  in  this  respect  resembles  the  village- 
made  wheel  plough.  "The  plough  drawn  by  steam 
power  in  like  manner  turns  the  second  furrow 
side  by  side  into  the  first,  always  throwing  the 
earth  the  same  way,  and  leaving  the  ground  level. 
This  is  one  of  its  defects  on  heavy  wet  land, 
as  it  does  not  drain  the  surface.  But  upon  the 
slopes  of  the  Downs  no  drains  or  raised  "  lands  " 
are  needed,  and  the  wheel  plough  answers 
perfectly. 

So  perfectly,  indeed,  does  it  answer  that  no 
iron  plough  has  yet  been  invented  that  can  beat 
it,  and  while  the  valleys  and  plains  are  now  al- 
most wholly  worked  with  factory-made  ploughs, 
the  South  Downs  are  cultivated  with  the  ploughs 
made  in  the  villages  by  the  wheelwrights.  A 
wheelwright  is  generally  regularly  employed  by 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

two  or  three  farms,  which  keep  him  in  constant 
work.  There  is  not,  perhaps,  another  home- 
made implement  of  old  English  agriculture  left 
in  use;  certainly,  none  at  once  so  curious  and  in- 
teresting, and,  when  drawn  by  oxen,  so  thoroughly 
characteristic. 

Under  the  September  sun,  flowers  may  still  be 
found  in  sheltered  places,  as  at  the  side  of  furze, 
on  the  highest  of  the  Downs.  Wild  thyme  con- 
tinues to  bloom  —  the  shepherd's  thyme  —  wild 
mignonette,  blue  scabious,  white  dropwort,  yellow 
bedstraw,  and  the  large  purple  blooms  of  greater 
knapweed.  Here  and  there  a  blue  field  gentian 
is  still  in  flower ;  "  eggs  and  bacon  "  grow  beside 
the  waggon  tracks.  Grasshoppers  hop  among  the 
short  dry  grass ;  bees  and  humble-bees  are  buzz- 
ing about,  and  there  are  places  quite  bright  with 
yellow  hawkweeds. 

The  furze  is  everywhere  full  of  finches,  troops 
of  them ;  and  there  are  many  more  swallows  than 
were  flying  here  a  month  since.  No  doubt  they 
are  on  their  way  southwards,  and  stay,  as  it  were, 
on  the  edge  of  the  sea  while  yet  the  sun  shines. 
As  the  evening  falls  the  sheep  come  slowly  home 
to  the  fold.  When  the  flock  is  penned  some 
stand  panting,  and  the  whole  body  at  each  pant 
moves  to  and  fro  lengthways ;  some  press  against 
the  flakes  till  the  wood  creaks ;  some  paw  the 
—  272  — 


SOUTHDOWN    SHEPHERD     SEE 


dry  and  crumbling  ground  (arable),  making  a  hol- 
low in  which  to  lie  down. 

Rooks  are  fond  of  the  places  where  sheep  have 
been  folded,  and  perhaps  that  is  one  of  the  causes 
why  they  so  continually  visit  certain  spots  in  par- 
ticular fields  to  the  neglect  of  the  rest. 


THE  BREEZE  ON  BEACHY  HEAD 


waves  coming  round  the  promon- 
tory before  the  west  wind  still  give 
the  idea  of  a  flowing  stream,  as  they 
did  in  Homer's  days.  Here  beneath 
the  cliff,  standing  where  beach  and  sand  meet,  it 
is  still ;  the  wind  passes  six  hundred  feet  overhead. 
But  yonder,  every  larger  wave  rolling  before  the 
breeze  breaks  over  the  rocks ;  a  white  line  of 
spray  rushes  along  them,  gleaming  in  the  sun- 
shine ;  for  a  moment  the  dark  rock-wall  disap- 
pears, till  the  spray  sinks. 

The  sea  seems  higher  than  the  spot  where  I 
stand,  its  surface  on  a  higher  level  —  raised  like 
a  green  mound  —  as  if  it  could  burst  in  and  oc- 
cupy the  space  up  to  the  foot  of  the  cliff  in  a 
moment.  It  will  not  do  so,  I  know ;  but  there 
is  an  infinite  possibility  about  the  sea;  it  may  do 
what  it  is  not  recorded  to  have  done.  It  is  not 
to  be  ordered,  it  may  overleap  the  bounds  human 
observation  has  fixed  for  it.  It  has  a  potency 
unfathomable.  There  is  still  something  in  it  not 


ON    BEACHY   HEAD 

quite  grasped  and  understood  —  something  still  to 
be  discovered  —  a  mystery. 

So  the  white  spray  rushes  along  the  low  broken 
wall  of  rocks,  the  sun  gleams  on  the  flying  frag- 
ments of  the  wave,  again  it  sinks,  and  the  rhythmic 
motion  holds  the  mind,  as  an  invisible  force  holds 
back  the  tide.  A  faith  of  expectancy,  a  sense  that 
something  may  drift  up  from  the  unknown,  a  large 
belief  in  the  unseen  resources  of  the  endless  space 
out  yonder,  soothes  the  mind  with  dreamy  hope. 

The  little  rules  and  little  experiences,  all  the 
petty  ways  of  narrow  life,  are  shut  off  behind  by 
the  ponderous  and  impassable  cliff;  as  if  we  had 
dwelt  in  the  dim  light  of  a  cave,  but  coming 
out  at  last  to  look  at  the  sun,  a  great  stone  had 
fallen  and  closed  the  entrance,  so  that  there  was 
no  return  to  the  shadow.  The  impassable  preci- 
pice shuts  off  our  former  selves  of  yesterday,  forc- 
ing us  to  look  out  over  the  sea  only,  or  up  to  the 
deeper  heaven. 

These  breadths  draw  out  the  soul ;  we  feel  that 
we  have  wider  thoughts  than  we  knew  ;  the  soul 
has  been  living,  as  it  were,  in  a  nutshell,  all  un- 
aware of  its  own  power,  and  now  suddenly  finds 
freedom  in  the  sun  and  the  sky.  Straight,  as  if 
sawn  down  from  turf  to  beach,  the  cliff  shuts  off 
the  human  world,  for  the  sea  knows  no  time  and 
no  era;  you  cannot  tell  what  century  it  is  from 
—  275  — 


•st^v,    NATURE    NEAR    LONDON     ^^^ 

the  face  of  the  sea.  A  Roman  trireme  suddenly 
rounding  the  white  edge-line  of  chalk,  borne  on 
wind  and  oar  from  the  Isle  of  Wight  towards  the 
grey  castle  at  Pevensey  (already  old  in  olden  days), 
would  not  seem  strange.  What  wonder  could  sur- 
prise us  coming  from  the  wonderful  sea  ? 

The  little  rills  winding  through  the  sand  have 
made  an  islet  of  a  detached  rock  by  the  beach  ; 
limpets  cover  it,  adhering  like  rivet-heads.  In  the 
stillness  here,  under  the  roof  of  the  wind  so  high 
above,  the  sound  of  the  sand  draining  itself  is 
audible.  From  the  cliff  blocks  of  chalk  have 
fallen,  leaving  hollows  as  when  a  knot  drops  from 
a  beam.  They  lie  crushed  together  at  the  base, 
and  on  the  point  of  this  jagged  ridge  a  wheatear 
perches. 

There  are  ledges  three  hundred  feet  above,  and 
from  these  now  and  then  a  jackdaw  glides  out  and 
returns  again  to  his  place,  where,  when  still  and 
with  folded  wings,  he  is  but  a  speck  of  black.  A 
spire  of  chalk  still  higher  stands  out  from  the 
wall,  but  the  rains  have  got  behind  it  and  will 
cut  the  crevice  deeper  and  deeper  into  its  founda- 
tion. Water,  too,  has  carried  the  soil  from  under 
the  turf  at  the  summit  over  the  verge,  forming 
brown  streaks. 

Upon  the  beach  lies  a  piece  of  timber,  part  of 
a  wreck  j  the  wood  is  torn  and  the  fibres  rent 
_276- 


ON    BEACHY   H  E  A  D  2£~~l* 

where  it  was  battered  against  the  dull  edge  of  the 
rocks.  The  heat  of  the  sun  burns,  thrown  back 
by  the  dazzling  chalk  ;  the  river  of  ocean  flows 
ceaselessly,  casting  the  spray  over  the  stones ;  the 
unchanged  sky  is  blue. 

Let  us  go  back  and  mount  the  steps  at  the  Gap, 
and  rest  on  the  sward  there.  I  feel  that  I  want 
the  presence  of  grass.  The  sky  is  a  softer  blue, 
and  the  sun  genial  now  the  eye  and  the  mind  alike 
are  relieved — the  one  of  the  strain  of  too  great 
solitude  (not  the  solitude  of  the  woods),  the  other 
of  too  brilliant  and  hard  a  contrast  of  colours. 
Touch  but  the  grass,  and  the  harmony  returns; 
it  is  repose  after  exaltation. 

A  vessel  comes  round  the  promontory ;  it  is  not 
a  trireme  of  old  Rome,  nor  the  "  fair  and  stately 
galley "  Count  Arnaldus  hailed  with  its  seamen 
singing  the  mystery  of  the  sea.  It  is  but  a  brig 
in  ballast,  high  out  of  the  water,  black  of  hull  and 
dingy  of  sail :  still,  it  is  a  ship,  and  there  is  always 
an  interest  about  a  ship.  She  is  so  near,  running 
along  but  just  outside  the  reef,  that  the  deck  is 
visible.  Up  rises  her  stern  as  the  billows  come 
fast  and  roll  under;  then  her  bow  lifts,  and  imme- 
diately she  rolls,  and,  loosely  swaying  with  the  sea, 
drives  along. 

The  slope  of  the  billow  now  behind  her  is 
white  with  the  bubbles  of  her  passage,  rising^ 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

too,  from  her  rudder.  Steering  athwart  with  a 
widening  angle  from  the  land,  she  is  laid  to  clear 
the  distant  point  of  Dungeness.  Next,  a  steamer 
glides  forth,  unseen  till  she  passed  the  cliff;  and 
thus  each  vessel  that  comes  from  the  westward  has 
the  charm  of  the  unexpected.  Eastward  there  is 
many  a  sail  working  slowly  into  the  wind,  and  as 
they  approach  talking  in  the  language  of  flags  with 
the  watch  on  the  summit  of  the  Head. 

Once  now  and  then  the  great  Orient  pauses 
on  her  outward  route  to  Australia,  slowing  her 
engines:  the  immense  length  of  her  hull  contains 
every  adjunct  of  modern  life ;  science,  skill,  and 
civilisation  are  there.  She  starts,  and  is  lost  sight 
of  round  the  cliff,  gone  straight  away  for  the  very 
ends  of  the  world.  The  incident  is  forgotten, 
when  one  morning,  as  you  turn  over  the  news- 
paper, there  is  the  Orient  announced  to  start  again. 
It  is  like  a  tale  of  enchantment ;  it  seems  but 
yesterday  that  the  Head  hid  her  from  view ;  you 
have  scarcely  moved,  attending  to  the  daily  routine 
of  life,  and  scarce  recognise  that  time  has  passed 
at  all.  In  so  few  hours  has  the  earth  been 
encompassed. 

The  sea-gulls  as  they  settle  on  the  surface  ride 

high   out  of  the   water,    like   the   mediaeval    cara- 

vals,  with  their  sterns  almost  as  tall  as  the  masts. 

Their    unconcerned    flight,    with    crooked    wings 

-278- 


ON    BEACHY    HEAD 

unbent,  as  if  it  were  no  matter  to  them  whether 
they  flew  or  floated,  in  its  peculiar  jerking  motion 
somewhat  reminds  one  of  the  lapwing  —  the  heron 
has  it,  too,  a  little  —  as  if  aquatic  or  water-side  birds 
had  a  common  and  distinct  action  of  the  wing. 

Sometimes  a  porpoise  comes  along,  but  just 
beyond  the  reef;  looking  down  on  him  from  the 
verge  of  the  clifF,  his  course  can  be  watched.  His 
dark  body,  wet  and  oily,  appears  on  the  surface 
for  two  seconds ;  and  then,  throwing  up  his  tail 
like  the  fluke  of  an  anchor,  down  he  goes.  Now 
look  forward,  along  the  waves,  some  fifty  yards 
or  so,  and  he  will  come  up,  the  sunshine  gleam- 
ing on  the  water  as  it  runs  off  his  back,  to  again 
dive,  and  reappear  after  a  similar  interval.  Even 
when  the  eye  can  no  longer  distinguish  the  form, 
the  spot  where  he  rises  is  visible,  from  the  slight 
change  in  the  surface. 

The  hill  receding  in  hollows  leaves  a  narrow 
plain  between  the  foot  of  the  sward  and  the  clifF; 
it  is  ploughed,  and  the  teams  come  to  the  foot- 
path which  follows  the  edge ;  and  thus  those  who 
plough  the  sea  and  those  who  plough  the  land 
look  upon  each  other.  The  one  sees  the  vessel 
change  her  tack,  the  other  notes  the  plough  turn- 
ing at  the  end  of  the  furrow.  Bramble  bushes 
project  over  the  dangerous  wall  of  chalk,  and 
grasses  fill  up  the  interstices,  a  hedge  suspended 
—  279  — 


E^-X    NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 


in  air ;  but  be  careful  not  to  reach  too  far  for 
the  blackberries. 

The  green  sea  is  on  the  one  hand,  the  yellow 
stubble  on  the  other.  The  porpoise  dives  along 
beneath,  the  sheep  graze  above.  Green  seaweed 
lines  the  reef  over  which  the  white  spray  flies, 
blue  lucerne  dots  the  field.  The  pebbles  of  the 
beach  seen  from  the  height  mingle  in  a  faint  blue 
tint,  as  if  the  distance  ground  them  into  coloured 
sand.  Leaving  the  footpath  now,  and  crossing 
the  stubble  to  "  France,"  as  the  wide  open  hol- 
low in  the  down  is  called  by  the  shepherds,  it  is 
no  easy  matter  in  dry  summer  weather  to  climb 
the  steep  turf  to  the  furze  line  above. 

Dry  grass  is  as  slippery  as  if  it  were  hair,  and 
the  sheep  have  fed  it  too  close  for  a  grip  of  the 
hand.  Under  the  furze  (still  far  from  the  sum- 
mit) they  have  worn  a  path  —  a  narrow  ledge,  cut 
by  their  cloven  feet  —  through  the  sward.  It  .is 
time  to  rest ;  and  already,  looking  back,  the  sea 
has  extended  to  an  indefinite  horizon.  This  climb 
of  a  few  hundred  feet  opens  a  view  of  so  many 
miles  more.  But  the  ships  lose  their  individuality 
and  human  character;  they  are  so  far,  so  very  far, 
away,  they  do  not  take  hold  of  the  sympathies  ; 
they  seem  like  sketches  —  cunningly  executed,  but 
only  sketches  —  on  the  immense  canvas  of  the 
ocean.  There  is  something  unreal  about  them. 


3KBREEZE   ON   BEACHY   H  E  A  D  :g 


On  a  calm  day,  when  the  surface  is  smooth  as 
if  the  brimming  ocean  had  been  straked  —  the  rod 
passed  across  the  top  of  the  measure,  thrusting  off 
the  irregularities  of  wave;  when  the  distant  green 
from  long  simmering  under  the  sun  becomes  pale; 
when  the  sky,  without  cloud,  but  with  some  slight 
haze  in  it,  likewise  loses  its  hue,  and  the  two  so 
commingle  in  the  pallor  of  heat  that  they  cannot 
be  separated  —  then  the  still  ships  appear  sus- 
pended in  space.  They  are  as  much  held  from 
above  as  upborne  from  beneath. 

They  are  motionless,  midway  in  space  — 
whether  it  is  sea  or  air  is  not  to  be  known. 
They  neither  float  nor  fly,  they  are  suspended. 
There  is  no  force  in  the  flat  sail,  the  mast  is  life- 
less, the  hull  without  impetus.  For  hours  they 
linger,  changeless  as  the  constellations,  still,  silent, 
motionless,  phantom  vessels  on  a  void  sea. 

Another  climb  up  from  the  sheep  path,  and  it  is 
not  far  then  to  the  terrible  edge  of  that  tremen- 
dous cliff  which  rises  straighter  than  a  ship's  side 
out  of  the  sea,  six  hundred  feet  above  the  detached 
rock  below,  where  the  limpets  cling  like  rivet 
heads,  and  the  sand  rills  run  around  it.  But  it  is 
not  possible  to  look  down  to  it  —  the  glance  of 
necessity  falls  outwards,  as  a  raindrop  from  the 
eaves  is  deflected  by  the  wind,  because  it  is  the 
edge  where  the  mould  crumbles ;  the  rootlets  of 
—  281  — 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

the  grass  are  exposed  ;  the  chalk  is  about  to  break 
away  in  flakes. 

You  cannot  lean  over  as  over  a  parapet,  lest 
such  a  flake  should  detach  itself — lest  a  mere 
trifle  should  begin  to  fall,  awakening  a  dread  and 
dormant  inclination  to  slide  and  finally  plunge  like 
it.  Stand  back;  the  sea  there  goes  out  and  out, 
to  the  left  and  to  the  right,  and  how  far  is  it  to  the 
blue  overhead  ?  The  eye  must  stay  here  a  long 
period,  and  drink  in  these  distances,  before  it  can 
adjust  the  measure,  and  know  exactly  what  it  sees. 

The  vastness  conceals  itself,  giving  us  no  land- 
mark or  milestone.  The  fleck  of  cloud  yonder, 
does  it  part  it  in  two,  or  is  it  but  a  third  of  the 
way  ?  The  world  is  an  immense  caldron,  the 
ocean  fills  it,  and  we  are  merely  on  the  rim  —  this 
narrow  land  is  but  a  ribbon  to  the  limitlessness 
yonder.  The  wind  rushes  out  upon  it  with  wild 
joy;  springing  from  the  edge  of  the  earth,  it  leaps 
out  over  the  ocean.  Let  us  go  back  a  few  steps 
and  recline  on  the  warm,  dry  turf. 

It  is  pleasant  to  look  back  upon  the  green  slope 
and  the  hollows  and  narrow  ridges,  with  sheep  and 
stubble  and  some  low  hedges,  and  oxen,  and  that 
old,  old  sloth  —  the  plough  —  creeping  in  his  path. 
The  sun  is  bright  on  the  stubble  and  the  corners 
of  furze;  there  are  bees  humming  yonder,  no  doubt, 
and  flowers,  and  hares  crouching  —  the  dew  dried 
—  282  — 


BREEZE   ON    BEACHY 

from  around  them  long  since,  and  waiting  for  it 
to  fall  again ;  partridges,  too,  corn-ricks,  and  the 
roof  of  a  farmhouse  by  them.  Lit  with  sunlight 
are  the  fields,  warm  autumn  garnering  all  that  is 
dear  to  the  heart  of  man,  blue  heaven  above  —  how 
sweet  the  wind  comes  from  these!  —  the  sweeter 
for  the  knowledge  of  the  profound  abyss  behind. 

Here,  reclining  on  the  grass  —  the  verge  of  the 
cliff  rising  a  little,  shuts  out  the  actual  sea  —  the 
glance  goes  forth  into  the  hollow  unsupported. 
It  is  sweeter  towards  the  corn-ricks,  and  yet  the 
mind  will  not  be  satisfied,  but  ever  turns  to  the 
unknown.  The  edge  and  the  abyss  recall  us; 
the  boundless  plain,  for  it  appears  solid  as  the 
waves  are  levelled  by  distance,  demands  the  gaze. 
But  with  use  it  becomes  easier,  and  the  eye  labours 
less.  There  is  a  promontory  standing  out  from 
the  main  wall,  whence  you  can  see  the  side  of  the 
cliff,  getting  a  flank  view,  as  from  a  tower. 

The  jackdaws  occasionally  floating  out  from 
the  ledge  are  as  mere  specks  from  above,  as  they 
were  from  below.  The  reef  running  out  from  the 
beach,  though  now  covered  by  the  tide,  is  visible 
as  you  look  down  on  it  through  the  water ;  the 
seaweed,  which  lay  matted  and  half  dry  on  the 
rocks,  is  now  under  the  wave.  Boats  have  come 
round,  and  are  beached  ;  how  helplessly  little  they 
seem  beneath  the  cliff  by  the  sea  ! 
-283- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

On  returning  homewards  towards  Eastbourne 
stay  awhile  by  the  tumulus  on  the  slope.  There 
are  others  hidden  among  the  furze ;  butterflies 
flutter  over  them,  and  the  bees  hum  round  by 
day;  by  night  the  night-hawk  passes,  coming  up 
from  the  fields  and  even  skirting  the  sheds  and 
houses  below.  The  rains  beat  on  them,  and  the 
storm  drives  the  dead  leaves  over  their  low  green 
domes ;  the  waves  boom  on  the  shore  far  down. 

How  many  times  has  the  morning  star  shone 
yonder  in  the  East  ?  All  the  mystery  of  the 
sun  and  of  the  stars  centres  around  these  lowly 
mounds. 

But  the  glory  of  these  glorious  Downs  is  the 
breeze.  The  air  in  the  valleys  immediately  be- 
neath them  is  pure  and  pleasant ;  but  the  least 
climb,  even  a  hundred  feet,  puts  you  on  a  plane 
with  the  atmosphere  itself,  uninterrupted  by  so 
much  as  the  treetops.  It  is  air  without  admix- 
ture. If  it  comes  from  the  south,  the  waves  re- 
fine it ;  if  inland,  the  wheat  and  flowers  and  grass 
distil  it.  The  great  headland  and  the  whole  rib 
of  the  promontory  is  wind-swept  and  washed  with 
air ;  the  billows  of  the  atmosphere  roll  over  it. 

The  sun  searches  out  every  crevice  amongst  the 
grass,  nor  is  there  the  smallest  fragment  of  surface 
which  is  not  sweetened  by  air  and  light.  Under- 
neath, the  chalk  itself  is  pure,  and  the  turf  thus 
-284- 


BREEZE    ON    BEACHY    HEAD  ^^s* 

washed  by  wind  and  rain,  sun-dried  and  dew- 
scented,  is  a  couch  prepared  with  thyme  to  rest 
on.  Discover  some  excuse  to  be  up  there  al- 
ways, to  search  for  stray  mushrooms  —  they  will 
be  stray,  for  the  crop  is  gathered  extremely  early 
in  the  morning  —  or  to  make  a  list  of  flowers  and 
grasses ;  to  do  anything,  and,  if  not,  go  always 
without  any  pretext.  Lands  of  gold  have  been 
found,  and  lands  of  spices  and  precious  merchan- 
dise j  but  this  is  the  land  of  health. 

There  is  the  sea  below  to  bathe  in,  the  air  of 
the  sky  up  hither  to  breathe,  the  sun  to  infuse  the 
invisible  magnetism  of  his  beams.  These  are  the 
three  potent  medicines  of  nature,  and  they  are 
medicines  that  by  degrees  strengthen  not  only 
the  body  but  the  unquiet  mind.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary to  always  look  out  over  the  sea.  By  strolling 
along  the  slopes  of  the  ridge  a  little  way  inland 
there  is  another  scene  where  hills  roll  on  after  hills 
till  the  last  and  largest  hides  those  that  succeed 
behind  it. 

Vast  cloud-shadows  darken  one,  and  lift  their 
veil  from  another;  like  the  sea,  their  tint  varies 
with  the  hue  of  the  sky  over  them.  Deep  nar- 
row valleys  —  lanes  in  the  hills  —  draw  the  foot- 
steps downwards  into  their  solitude,  but  there  is 
always  the  delicious  air,  turn  whither  you  will, 
and  there  is  always  the  grass,  the  touch  of  which 
-285- 


NATURE    NEAR    LONDON 

refreshes.  Though  not  in  sight,  it  is  pleasant  to 
know  that  the  sea  is  close  at  hand,  and  that  you 
have  only  to  mount  to  the  ridge  to  view  it.  At 
sunset  the  curves  of  the  shore  westward  are  rilled 
with  a  luminous  mist. 

Or  if  it  should  be  calm,  and  you  should  like  to 
look  at  the  massive  headland  from  the  level  of  the 
sea,  row  out  a  mile  from  the  beach.  Eastwards 
a  bank  of  red  vapour  shuts  in  the  sea,  the  wavelets 
—  no  larger  than  those  raised  by  the  oar  —  on  that 
side  are  purple  as  if  wine  had  been  spilt  upon  them, 
but  westwards  the  ripples  shimmer  with  palest 
gold. 

The  sun  sinks  behind  the  summit  of  the  Downs, 
and  slender  streaks  of  purple  are  drawn  along  above 
them.  A  shadow  comes  forth  from  the  cliff;  a 
duskiness  dwells  on  the  water;  something  tempts 
the  eye  upwards,  and  near  the  zenith  there  is 
a  star. 


THE    END. 


The  University  Press,  Cambridge,  U.  S.  A. 


DATE  DUE 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


